


A Sinner's Future

by mona_liar



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Child Abuse, Child Labour, Child Neglect, Happy Ending, Jehan uses they/them pronouns, Misgendering, Multi, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, You will be able to skip the paragraphs with the misgendering though, basically same place same time but different story and character placement, graphic depictions of injury, inspired by Perfume: Story of a Murderer, intuitive historical accuracy, period typical mysogyny, trans man Éponine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23342800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona_liar/pseuds/mona_liar
Summary: In 1817, Paris, a boy was born into despair and poverty. Saved by his own resilience to live, he knew he was destined to greatness, deserving of respect, no matter the cost. And he would die before he let anyone keep it from him.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Montparnasse (Les Misérables), Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Let us all pretend this is a happy Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this fic two~ years ago filled to the brim with motivation and got no further than 16k words/3 chapters in. Due to the Corona-Virus lockdown I've started to write it once more and will post one chapter every week, on Saturday, around 7pm CEST. None of this is edited, let alone beta read because I'm lazy and I've already spent enough time on this without investing even more.  
> Tags will possibly be added as I continue writing this story. 
> 
> If you see any spelling errors, typos, or other mistakes, please tell me so I might correct them.

In 1817, the city of Paris had grown into an oxymoron of the most perfect kind. Although filled with culture and beauty, it was rotten to its very core. There was no place to lay your eyes on which didn’t reek of decay or seemed to crumble to dust the moment one turned its back on it. Everything was ugly and there was no possibility to escape the stench which seemed to flow through the streets like blood through our veins. The houses stank of unemptied chamber pots, the streets stank of the sewers and the backyards stank of blood. There were many places in the city itself which fought for the title of Shame of Paris with tooth and nail, but ever since the banishment of the cemeteries at the beginning of the century, the true nefariousness was found just outside the city walls, especially at the place where seven years later would take place the first funeral of the _Cimetière Montparnasse._  
Quite near our place of interest was the Hôpital de la Charité and since those were times where hospitals where a place to die rather than a place to heal, it was necessary to have someplace to bury the poor victims of primitive medicine. As the cemeteries were in these times, there was no way to find peace in those graves and the Horror of the graveyard was enough to even keep the dead awake.  
Living and working near this house was a young woman, barely 20 years of age. Although she had neither want nor need for it, she was with child. The pregnancy had taken its toll and with each passing day, her cheeks grew hollower, her eyes duller and her skin more waxen. Everyone who looked at her knew she wouldn’t survive giving birth. And they were proven correct. On the 17th of July 1817, alone and only a few hundred yards away from the graveyard, she lost her life and gave it to a boy with hair as black as the night sky and eyes as deep as the sea. She held him close in her arms, close to her heart which beat slower and slower with each breath the new-born took. Like an hourglass, he grew full of energy as she lost hers.  
A few hours had already passed by and the sun had gone down when the young woman’s family finally began looking for her, worrying why she hadn’t come back to the family house yet. Her parents and her younger sister were walking through the fields surrounding the graveyard, shouting her name in the vain hope that she would hear it and answer them, giving them any chance to know where she was, even if it was to be found in the arms of the good for nothing man who had given her the child in the first place. Nobody knew his name, and nobody really cared if it wasn’t related to giving them money to raise the child and take care of his mother. The idea of giving up had already crossed their minds when a long and piercing wail suddenly cut through the crisp nightair. Against all expectations, even though it hadn’t made a single sound up to now, the baby had suddenly begun to scream.  
Many who look back and know what will become of this baby have already enunciated this as his first act of pure evil, a performance necessary for all crimes to come which could have been prevented if the baby had just allowed itself to die right there this very night. But for all of us who at least try to see the motives for certain actions and do not let our judgement be clouded by certain ideas others want us to have about certain events, circumstances or people, it was an action generated from the most basic and innocent of human instincts: the simple will to live.  
As fast as they could, the two women and the father ran to the origin of the sound to find the image they had tried thinking about all along. Lying in the grass, the young woman might have looked as if she was sleeping with her newly born baby at her breast if it hadn’t been for the blood soiling her dress and the ground, the latter having absorbed most of it by now. Her father knew immediately his daughter wouldn’t wake up; Death had not made itself rare in these regions. Without hesitating or allowing his heart to grieve, he pulled his knife from his belt and sawed through the umbilical cord. Immediately, the mother pulled the infant up into her arms. They were fast and efficient and without love in taking care of their daughter after her last moments.  
Before she had given birth, her parents had tried to convince her that she couldn’t take care of the child, that they didn’t have enough money to feed an additional mouth, even less so the hungry one of a child. But she was stubborn and each time they tried to convince her to do what they thought was best for her, she refused and simply answered: “I will find a way.” Now that she was dead, she had lost all possibility of finding a way as well as the ability to refuse. The very same night, before finally lying her body to rest the next morning, a small shadow scurried to the next church where they knew the child would be taken care of. They weren’t monsters after all.  
It goes without saying that when Father Terrier opened the doors of the church the next morning, he did not expect to find a baby on the steps. However, it needs to be addressed that he wasn’t entirely taken aback by this course of events either. He was a man who cared about his community and who knew what the people whose spiritual peace he was in charge of were going through. When he had seen this boy’s mother at mass the previous Sunday, he had had the bad feeling that this would be the last time they saw each other. When he prayed this day, he couldn’t help but send a prayer to Heaven in hope that this young woman’s soul who had to leave too soon would be allowed to find peace despite her sinful ways.  
In the following days, whenever he could Father Terrier paid close attention to what the people were saying. He knew eavesdropping wasn’t the exactly morally right thing to do but – so he told himself ¬¬¬– it was to help an innocent soul and was there anything more just than that?  
When it was time to baptise the child, and give him a name at last, the Father couldn’t help but think of the circumstances under which the child had been born, of his quite beautiful mother and of the beauty the child itself would grow into as he got older. He saw the angels and art the church was filled with, thought of the bigger and unique beauty which awaited in Rome, the foundation of all splendour and magnificence which could be found for those who could only appreciate it. Finally, wishing for the boy to appreciate and cherish the beauty in the World, he was given the name Raphaël Montparnasse.  
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to take care of an infant, Father Terrier gave Montparnasse to a wet nurse named Anne Bussie. He was happy to have this responsibility of his chest and she was glad that she would earn a bit of extra money. Both considered this a very good deal.  
After 6 months, Anne Bussie decided the pay wasn’t good enough for the work she had to accomplish taking care of Montparnasse. She gave him to an old colleague of her who was in more dire need of money. Nobody wanted to give her children anymore. Good riddance she told herself.  
This wet nurse didn’t turn out very different from Anne. Neither did the next. By the time he turned 8 years old, Montparnasse had seen more different homes than anyone would have thought possible. That was when he was given into the care Madame Gaillard.  
Madame Gaillard was the type of person as there are so many in Paris if one only has the opportunity of finding them, which, to be frank, is a surprisingly difficult and rare task to achieve. Thankfully for Montparnasse, that’s where he ended up finding up his childhood home, or at least the first place where the person in charge of taking care of him didn’t have any active interest in getting rid of him as fast as possible. Of course, one should not mistake this attitude of Madame Gaillard’s as motherly love or anything positive of that sort. It was actually quite the contrary. She was a woman made to 70% out of water and to 30% percent out of self-interest which seemed to be the only source of motivation she could come up with in her otherwise dreary and unhappy life. Of the roughly dozen children who had been given in her care by other wet nurses or women, who expected raising a child would bring them fulfilment and utter happiness but turned out to not be up to the task, she had no favourites and treated them all equally, for there was no love found in her for any of them.  
From an outside perspective, love might have been exactly what Montparnasse needed at this stage of life and he could have grown up to be a more socially respected person but as it were from his point of view, this arrangement was the best one he found himself in so far and it suited him just fine. Madame Gaillard received compensations for taking care of him and he received two meals a day and was otherwise free to do as he wanted. Was there anything more he could ask for?  
As of 8 years old by now, Montparnasse began to discover Paris on his own and to find his place in this world, for at this moment, Paris was his whole world and there was no point for him in discovering what could be found outside the city walls.  
It must be noted that from the very beginning, Montparnasse knew how to be the very incorporation of Charming. He oozed confidence and charisma from every fibre of his being like other people exude sweat. In the shortest amount of time, wrapping others around his little finger had become a second nature to him, which would turn out to be his calling and according to some, also his downfall. Soon enough, Montparnasse had established a small but reliable community with which he could spend his days without ever getting bored too quickly. He found himself someone who taught him to write and read, another who taught him how to pickpocket and a various other assembly of people with equally various skillsets who he convinced to pass their knowledge onto him. As of now, life was good for Montparnasse. However, he wasn’t the type of person to be satisfied with his current position so easily, especially when he was confronted with what he could achieve, with the true object of his desires every single day without the possibility to escape it.  
Paris was the city of contradictions and as such, it was also the city of inequalities. It was known for dirty streets, for the Cimetière des Innocents, which until the end of the XIIIth century was said to be the most disgusting and foul-smelling place on the planet, it was known for poverty, desolation and moral deprivation. One cannot deny, however, that it was Paris and as such, it was the centre of all wealth and riches which could be found in Paris and thus in all of Europe. No place was filled and defined by so much opulence as the dirty and filth-ridden streets of Paris. Whenever the carriage of some aristocrat or bourgeois passed through the streets, Montparnasse stopped and watched it until he couldn’t see it anymore, heart and head filled with hatred and resentment. Why didn’t he live like that? Why was he condemned to live in rot and dirt while they were given everything without knowing what to do with it? They didn’t know what to do with everything they had because they didn’t know it’s worth, but Montparnasse… Montparnasse would do it justice and exhaust its full potential until there was none left on this forsaken Earth. He had been born to surround himself with and appreciate all the beauty which was to be found in this world and he wouldn’t rest until he’d possess it all.  
For two years, Montparnasse was given a roof over his head and watery soup to eat twice a day and nothing changed except on his own volition. After these two years, something happened. He never learned why, but one morning, so early one might even still have called it night, Madame Gaillard came into the big room where all the kids were sleeping and looking at every single face with her dimly lit candle until she found him. Roughly and without every possibly considering what Montparnasse might think about this, she pulled him from his paillasse and from his sleep. For the first time since he had been sent to live with her, Montparnasse didn’t get anything to eat in the morning and went out into the streets hungry, with grumbling stomach. Madame Gaillard didn’t slow down for a single moment and continued to drag Montparnasse along while he struggled to keep up, still half asleep and unaware where this trip was supposed to go to.  
The place Madame Gaillard had decided to bring Montparnasse was a slaughterhouse in possession of a man named Grimal. He was a giant standing over 6 feet tall with broad shoulders. When Montparnasse tried to look at his face for the first time, he saw nothing but shadows as the butcher’s stature obscured the sun which had finally begun to rise. Just like his profession called for it, Grimal was a violent and brutal man and thus, as a few coins were passed from hand to hand, Montparnasse changed house and home. After two years of relative peace, he had arrived at a place made from stench and rot, composed by vile and horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is a little short, but the next ones will be longer (as you can surely see from the current word count). If you've enjoyed it so far, please write a comment! It can be a keysmash, a bunch of emojis, anything! Feedback makes my day and knowing that what I'm creating makes people happy/entertains them truly makes the actual writing so much more enjoyable.


	2. About the Impossibility of finding Joy in a slaughterhouse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse is thrown from purgatory into hell. However, he has ambition and a plan. Small things like this one will not stop him.

The day he arrived at Grimal’s slaughterhouse, Montparnasse was given a bit of rest and sparred all the hard work which would fall upon him in the future. This did not keep the master of the house from showing him around. With each new thing that was unveiled from his eyes, each new task Montparnasse learned he would have to do, the sentiment of repulsion and disgust in him grew stronger. This is where they wanted him to live for the foreseeable future? Surrounded by all the vilest assault on his senses a person could possibly experience in this place and age, where even God could have found inspiration when he designed Hell. Before he had seen half of the premise, Montparnasse’s shoes where already drenched in blood and stuck to the pavement, making a horrible squeaking noise every time he had to wrench it free to take the next step. One thing was sure: there would be nothing to enjoy while he was to live there.  
The next morning marked the beginning of a long time full of pain and hurt for Montparnasse when he was woken by a bucket of cold and presumably dirty water being thrown into his face. The straw on the ground he had been told to sleep on hadn’t been the most comfortable either and a serious downgrade from his sleeping place at Madame Gaillard’s home for orphans. Montparnasse wasn’t taken by surprise when each step he took and each bucket he carried made him feel as if he was one moment closer to falling on the floor and sleeping, unsure when or if he would ever wake up again. Work wasn’t designed to be fun for people like him and there was no possibility in this world that people like Grimal would let him do anything he might enjoy. Every single morning, Montparnasse had to wake up at the crack of dawn or earlier and spend the first few hours of his day getting the animals who had just arrived where they belonged, in a dingy and stifling barn which once might have been supposed to house animals of various breeds. After that, he was to clean out the stables of the horses and feed them. Only then was he allowed something to eat, mostly leftover soup from the evening before, this time watered down to stretch it a little. He was lucky if there were no flies in his water. Day in day out, he was working from sunrise to sunset, in Winter even longer. When he was done, there was nothing left to do for him but to fall on his sleeping place in the least hurtful way possible, already closing his eyes as he did and immediately falling asleep. The next morning, everything began once more.  
After living and working for Grimal for over two months, it seemed the butcher had accepted his existence within his company and household. With this new position and included promotion in Grimal’s perception that Montparnasse was in fact one of the people who existed around him and who’s actions influenced certain turns of event came a newfound responsibility. One of these were quite enjoyable for him, such as making sure the deliveries of meat arrived on time and therefore getting to see people and things outside the court’s walls. On the other hand, now that Grimal was objectively aware of his existence, he had found a new black sheep to let his rage out on whenever something went wrong. It was a new experience for Montparnasse to wake up aching all over from the bruises which plastered his body from then on, but not a rare one for the near future.  
One of the consequences on which we’re unable to say whether it’s a good or a bad thing is the envy rising up in Montparnasse’s chest as he discovered the people who got to enjoy the meat he was helping prepare. When the ice carriages rolled up in front of the kitchen entrance of some bourgeois’ hotel in the middle of Paris and he was offered a glimpse within the building, Montparnasse could see chandeliers glistening in the light and rich tapestries covering the floor, showing their delicate decorations to the entire room. Sometimes, a servant would pass by, carrying a silver tablet with some small snack or drinks for whoever fancied it at the moment, and as the thick and for Montparnasse surely expensive jackets, culottes and socks became more and more part of the lifestyle he was offered right in front of his nose but still behind glass, laughing at his face for it was impossible to achieve for someone like him, Montparnasse’s heart grew heavier with each passing day that he was deprived from these luxuries other were allowed to enjoy for no logical reasons than that some things more powerful than him found it amusing to see him suffering.  
However, glass is cruel in allowing us to see without letting us touch and so Montparnasse had to return to his pitiful sleeping place on the hay on top of the floor, forced to agonise through hunger and thirst and hits and pain and though each time, he swore himself something would change, nothing happened, and his suffering went on and on and on.  
By the time the second year had passed, the hollow feeling in his stomach had become a daily companion for Montparnasse, both day and night, only leaving him for a few short moments after he had finished eating, as if the mixture of water and soft vegetables which were supposed to feed him had any effect than increasing the hunger for something more. The sight and scent of the meat right in front of his nose for the entire day didn’t help for that matter, even if there happened to be flies or other sources of non-dead things on it. With hunger on his heels as if it were Mephisto and he Dr. Faust, Montparnasse roamed Paris and grew taller, stronger and more beautiful. All of this without mirrors to witness it and thus in complete ignorance. 

It was a hot summer day and the sun hung in the sky like a hammer before hitting the anvil. Whoever could escape the outside temperatures did everything they could to do so and whoever didn’t have this luck had to suffer through their day just like Montparnasse did. The evening before, Grimal or his wife hadn’t given him his normally daily soup to eat and the former had hit him across the face with his giant’s fist when he had dared to ask for the scraps from their table. By the next morning, a dark blue bruise had begun to expand on his left cheek just underneath his eye. The hard work he had to accomplish that day didn’t help the matter. Montparnasse had just returned the now empty cart to its place in the stables after having pushed and pulled it through half of Paris. By now, his hunger had become an iceberg, growing taller and more massive with each passing second until the moment he would inevitably ram it and thus begin sinking into his demise. He was just trying to push his thoughts about food or hunger into the back of his mind when a second iceberg appeared just in front of him, smaller, but not any less dangerous than the first. Not even ten meters in front of him was a market and the first thing on this market, the very first stand was overflowing with luscious, colourful and ripe apples which practically begged to be eaten or they would rot away in the sun. As the helpful person he was, Montparnasse quickly decided to step in and help. That helping himself might deter from helping the owner of the apples didn’t cross his mind even once, as it probably wouldn’t cross any other person’s mind who also found themselves in the position he was in this very moment. It was quickly done and with a swift movement of his hand followed by an even faster flick of his wrist, the parlour was missing one apple and the owner was screaming after Montparnasse in the streets, crying out for his stolen good. Several passer-by’s and clients tried to stop him or make him fall, but Montparnasse didn’t allow any of them to succeed. He ran faster than he ever had before, without hesitation or throwing a glance back, knowing that if he took his eyes of his goal — escaping unscathed — he would lose everything he had and more. The screams of the merchant had long ceased and been out of hearing range when Montparnasse deemed it safe to turn right into a back alley which let straight to a dark and seemingly empty courtyard. Gluing his back to the wall at the very far end of this courtyard, Montparnasse tried to breathe as quietly as possible. Hopefully, whoever might be following him was too far behind to see him hide and lost his track. The apple was still firmly gripped in his hand, as if he tried to crush it with brute strength. After a few seconds, he slightly relaxed. It didn’t appear as if anyone had followed him. He was safe. Without any hesitation, he bit into the apple. The feeling of the fruit’s juice dripping from the flesh into his mouth, some of it draping itself over his tongue, the rest escaping and falling from his lips and chin to the floor was what ambrosia must have tasted like. Montparnasse had never eaten anything which could compare to what he experienced now, not that he had many dishes or other things he could compare it to. What Montparnasse didn’t expect was the door right next to him to open violently, crashing against the wall with a loud bang and making him jump from scare. A young woman with auburn hair and big brown eyes walked out of the door, carrying a heavy-looking basket full of garbage. If he had kept quiet, she might have overlooked Montparnasse, but his squeak caught her attention. Resting the basket on her hip, she turned to him.  
“Well, who do we have here? You don’t work at the tavern, do you?”, she asked and if she had had a free hand, she would have put it on her hip, looking like a stern mother scolding one of her children. Montparnasse was caught in motion while lifting the apple to his lips once again, looking at her with wide eyes, not saying anything.  
“Looks like you’re hiding from someone. I just heard screams down the street from the old merchant from the corner. You had something to do with it, am I right?”  
Although she ended the sentence like a question, there was no doubt about what it was: an accusation of absolute certainty.  
To Montparnasse’s big surprise, her voice carried no tone of anger or displeasure. If he wasn’t mistaken, which he could never be sure of in situations like these, it even sounded as if she was amused by his behaviour. He nodded.  
Smiling and with the reverberation of laughter in her words, she put the basket down and bend down until she was at his height. Because of his young age, Montparnasse still missed his towering height which would later come both to his advantage and misfortune.  
“Well, you’re lucky the people around here are as dumb as thatch or you wouldn’t sit here right now, enjoying my company.”  
At these words, the tension in Montparnasse’s entire body finally disappeared once again. She was on his side. She wouldn’t rat him out for a few sous. He was safe for the time being. He let himself relax against the wall.  
They chatted merely for a few minutes, Montparnasse not wanting to risk getting out to soon and the girl having no desire to cut her well-deserved and long-awaited break short, even if it meant spending it with a young boy who just stole an apple. She couldn’t say she blamed him for it. She had done worse before she had found employment when she was hungry. Suddenly, a roar cut through the air, barely distinguishable as different words. The girl sighed and turned to Montparnasse.  
“I’m sorry, I have to go. You could hear that it’s better not to be late when you work here.”  
Without losing another moment, she grabbed her basket and turned around to go back inside. Before she closed the heavy door behind her, she turned to Montparnasse one last time. There was a glint in her eyes Montparnasse couldn’t identify. If it was envy or sadness, he could not tell.  
“You know, you really shouldn’t be wasting your time stealing apples. You’re pretty. There are better ways to survive for people like you. When you’re older, you should try to catch the eye of some of the rich folks. I bet they’ll let you live the good life if you’re ready to pay the right price.” And with these words, she was gone. The muffled bang from the door falling shut resonated in Montparnasse’s ears. No one had ever called him pretty before. Now, he couldn’t wait to grow handsome.  
This night, Montparnasse went to sleep with an aching back in addition to his already swollen black eye. When he had come back to the house, the first thing Grimal had asked for was where the cart had gone to. Montparnasse had cursed himself internally, knowing he should have gone back to get it. He had feared getting caught by the owner of whom he had stolen the apple but considering the consequences he had suffered through from Grimal, it might have been the lesser of two evils. In the following weeks, every single movement was hell for Montparnasse. Sometimes, he could feel one of the wounds opening, the pus clotting everything. At least the stench in the slaughterhouse was already so bad his physical condition wasn’t worsened by anyone. Most of the worker’s noses, most of all Grimal’s, existed only for facial decoration by now.  
As he was forced to work until he fell over, Montparnasse could not forget the words the barmaid from the backyard had told him. If he could convince someone rich enough to take care of him, he could live like he had always wanted, like he had always deserved. Of course, he knew something like that could not happen from one moment to another. He would have to work for it. But if he knew one thing for sure, it was that continuing to work for Grimal was not within the realm of his possibilities. He had to find a way out of there.  
Night after night, Montparnasse lay awake, trying to find a way out of his misery. Day after day, he had to carry the meat they were creating in the slaughterhouse to the rich hôtels of Paris, witnessing the opulence and downright disgustingly filthy amounts of money these people had as if they were drinking water. Even their clean water was something Montparnasse envied them for. His physical wounds were slowly healing, but his psychological ones and the ones to his pride were being ripped apart further and further with each passing moment.  
The duty to find a way out of this hell was burning into his brain, his heart, his lungs, his entire being. However, he didn’t find the metaphorical candle in the dark which would lead him to safety. The candle found him.  
Montparnasse had just made a break for pulling the now empty cart. One of the rather serious injuries on his back had made it impossible for him to take on step further. The insufferable heat didn’t achieve anything in helping him. He had leaned against the neared brick wall in hope of finding a bit of coolness or at least a shadow, when a quite tidy pair of shoes stepped into his view. Montparnasse had never seen anything like them so up close before without laying face first on the ground. As he looked up, he saw himself starring into the eyes of a long familiar face for the first time in years.  
The other boy had presented himself as Jean-Baptiste the first time they had met. He was a little bit shorter than Montparnasse himself and a little bit scrawnier as well, a black mop on top of his head instead of hair. In appearance, he was a normal malnourished boy like there were so many living in the streets of Paris. There was nothing special about him. When Montparnasse had still housed in the orphanage of Madame Gaillard, they had spent countless days discovering the city and everything else they could find. Back then, Jean-Baptiste had worn the same ragged clothes as Montparnasse, he had had the same hair which had probably never seen a comb or anything similar trying to tame it, and he had had a certain wilderness in him that seemed somewhat out of place in such a great and civilised city as Paris. But as he was standing before him, he looked like an entirely different person. Had Montparnasse not known Jean-Baptiste so well, he might not have recognised him.  
“Hello, Montparnasse”, the other boy greeted him. His smile did little to hide a certain indescribable sense of slyness on his face, as if it was a mask out of tulle doing a very bad job at hiding what was not supposed to be seen.  
“Hello, Jean.” Montparnasse was still trying to take in the image before him. Jean-Baptiste was dressed like, well, not a rich boy, there was no point in exaggerating, but he was dressed like a better off person than Montparnasse had ever expected him to become. His shoes were shiny, and his hair cut short, his collar was frilly and the jacket he was wearing over the entire ensemble seemed somewhat out of place on him, especially as Montparnasse recalled he had been wearing an old scarf to keep him warm the last time he had seen him.  
“You look like you could use some help with that,” Jean-Baptiste said, pointing at the cart.  
“You look as if you’re getting fried alive in that fancy fashion of yours,” Montparnasse replied, vaguely waving at the ensemble the other was wearing. “Seems like you’ve made something out of your life.”  
This time Jean-Baptiste’s smile seemed genuine, although somewhat arrogant in a frightening manner like Montparnasse had never seen it before.  
“Ah, yes, I’ve managed to be employed at a perfumery! I must admit, it pays of to be part of the upper world. You should try it one of these days. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to make a delivery for the shop.” With these words and apparently having completely forgotten that he had offered to help Montparnasse with his cart, Jean-Baptiste went his way. Montparnasse didn’t care for the lost help. He had something much more important on his mind, of such great importance that everything, the heat, the still hurting and once more open injuries on his back as well as the load of work still waiting for him completely disappeared from his train of thought. There was only on thing he could think about in this moment. If Montparnasse wanted to escape Grimal and live the same life as the merchants he had to deliver to all day long, if he wanted to wear the same clothes as Jean-Baptiste, he had to work for it. He had to convince them that he was just like them, that he could do the same things they did, that he was deserving of everything they would give him. Montparnasse knew his worth. He knew he deserved it. Now, the only thing left to do was to convince the people with the means to give this kind of life to him that he deserved it in their eyes as well.  
From the very next hour, Montparnasse began working on his plan. As he was delivering the last skins and pelts on his car, he was scouting which household or shop was the most fitting for his ambitions and might accept him into their service the easiest. There were some possibilities he had to consider. As he was struggling to sleep on his hay mattress after having been sent to bed without dinner once again, the plan began slowly to take form in his mind.  
Over the next days, the plan took form, became sharper and more detailed like a statue comes to life under the hands of its sculptor. However, something else grew bigger, looming over Montparnasse more and more with each day he spent working, not taking any rest. The injuries and open wounds did not take well with his carelessness and as was their nature under such conditions, they grew infected. Montparnasse, though having been exposed to all sort of things, had never had such vulnerability to the things able to harm your body and turn your life into a living hell as he did now, with open flesh where bacteria and microbes could simply waltz into his organism as if was a dinner with open invitation. Of course, Montparnasse noticed his injuries hurting more and more with each day, but he paid no mind to it. It was of no matter to him, that was, what happened when your body happened to get maltreated in such fashion. Everything would turn out fine, it always did.  
If he had been hopelessly naïve or impossibly ignorant, one could not say. All that could be told was that not everything turned out fine for Montparnasse.  
The sun had just begun to set, and the day was growing colder as with great effort, Montparnasse was pulling the now empty cart over the coble-stone covered streets of Paris. He had done his work for the day. Soon he would be able to fall asleep, dreaming of the day he could finally escape this place. His head was spinning, and his vision was blurring. The sun crashing down that day and the intense heat must have gotten to him. Thankfully, night was coming, and he would hopefully be allowed to rest soon. He had just turned into the street at which’s end Grimal’s slaughterhouse was located, when everything began to turn around him. There was no way for him to tell where up and down were, the sky and the ground seemed out of place, the former far too distant and the latter getting nearer by the second. Montparnasse felt a dumb point although he couldn’t situate it, couldn’t describe what it felt like. All he could feel was pain, and heat, and his breath coming in ragged and laboured strokes as it was getting more and more difficult for him to breathe. With each breath rattling inside his throat and lungs like a rattle toy for children, darkness crept into Montparnasse’s vision. Soon, his entire vision was focused on a small pebble, lying peacefully on the dirty ground just in front of his nose. Then, that small pebble, too, was captured in darkness. Montparnasse was gone.  
The stars were already shining brightly in the sky, when someone finally found Montparnasse. It was Grimal’s wife, having stepped outside to relieve herself after dinner and to escape her brute of a husband as long as she could. Originally, she hadn’t planned on going that far from the house itself, walking across the courtyard and onto the street. But the dogs had been barking louder than usual, as if there was someone outside. She had to make sure there were no stupid kids who did not know what ownership was trying to steal from them. It was only when she saw Montparnasse lying in the dirt that she remembered he had not come for dinner, asking for something to eat. His once upon a time white shirt was drenched in dark brown on his shoulder, sticking onto his back, in stark contrast even to the dirt and mud which coloured the fabric. More carefully than one might have expected from her considering her usual behaviour, she turned Montparnasse onto his back, putting her hand on his forehead. It was burning. With all her strength, which means with considerable force as we remember Madame Grimal spent her days working in a slaughterhouse, she picked Montparnasse up. He was clearly ill and no matter her many moral flaws, she was no one to let a child who lived under her care sleep outside with a burning fever and open wounds. She carried him inside and dropped him off on his dirty hay mattress. She then went inside the house to get some fresh water. It was time to clean these wounds and try to spare her husband from having to buy a new, much likely more expensive, workforce after this one had already proven how valuable, efficient and quiet he was.  
Montparnasse was gravely ill. It was his luck that Grimal did nothing else but grumble into his beard while his wife took care of cleaning the wounds and cooling down the fewer. She was a businesswoman first. Losing her employees what not something she could allow.  
For several weeks, Montparnasse was bound to his bed and mostly unconscious. His skin had taken an ashy tone and he looked like he might succumb to death at any moment. His still open wounds were mostly healed after two weeks since someone was finally taking care of them and preventing more dirt to enter the open flesh, but Montparnasse’s condition didn’t get any better. After 4 weeks, nearly everyone had given up. Everyone but Montparnasse. The only thing on his mind for all this time had been his survival. He would not give up before he had achieved what he wanted. He would not rest until he had acquired his desires and wealth. No matter how much the world wanted to drag him down, he would resist and fight and show everyone who the true ruler was. No one was going to best him, not even his own body. Of that he was sure.  
Madame Grimal had already resigned herself to call the priest for the next morning. It pained her to let Montparnasse go like that, not because she did not want to lose the boy; in truth, she held no personal affection towards him and would have reacted and felt the same way had it been anybody else. Her own failing in saving his life her family some money as she had originally planned was what made her entire being ache. She was a woman of success, no matter when. Losing was something she could not stand.  
As the priest stepped into the dingy room, Montparnasse starred at him through half hooded eyes. He had difficulties seeing clear as his fever was still blurring his vision, but there was no mistaken who someone dressed in all black with only a speck of white under the head could possibly be. Before the man had even had a chance to utter a word or say hello, Montparnasse had already croaked a faint, barely distinguishable sentence. No one in the room understood what he had just said. In belief of having missed something important, something vital for the saving of this young boy’s soul, the priest bent over and placed his ear as close as possible to Montparnasse’s lips in hope of hearing him repeat what he had just said. When he finally did, he backed up in surprise of what he had just heard.  
“ _I will not die._ ”  
Baffled, he bent over once again to talk to Montparnasse, ignoring the dirt and slight mud staining his clerical clothes, who did not let him wait for long. This time, his voice was already stronger, laced with determination and annoyance over having to repeat himself for the third time.  
“You can go. Your services are not necessary to me. I will not die.”  
This time, the priest took one step back, but simply to fetch himself a stool to sit next to the so-called bed. For hours, he tried to convince Montparnasse to confess his sins, to at least admit he wanted to reach Heaven. Each time, Montparnasse refused, leaving him more frustrated. As he left the house, he vowed himself to come back and finish his duty. When he did the next day, even earlier than the last time, he was offered the spectacle of Montparnasse sitting upright on the hay, not even slightly leaning against the wall. He greeted the priest with a mocking grin.  
“I told you would not die. You were wasting your time by not listening to me.”  
His voice was already stronger than the day before. Still faint, but Montparnasse had never had a very loud manner of speaking. He nearly sounded like he used to before the illness. Madame Grimal had already begun making him chicken broth, something he had never had the prior luck of eating in her household. Grimal himself had heard the news from his wife and grumbled something along the lines of “That brat at least knows the work he still owes me” before continuing to eat his breakfast. The priest, a man who never was at loss of words, didn’t know what to say. He had been sure this boy had been on the verge of the afterlife. Nobody could cheat like this. Nobody should be able to. Like petrified, he was still standing on the threshold, his eyes fixed on the boy in front of him, barely more than a heap of bones covered by skin and measly clothes, starring right back at him with eyes darker than the blackest coal. It was a frightening experience, chilling to the bone and nearly freezing him in place. Thankfully for him, there are little things more moving than a man’s fear for his own life. A strip of his cassock was left flowing freely in the wind as he ran from the yard. Montparnasse didn’t have one more thought about him. His mind was preoccupied with more important matters, such as the chicken broth which exceptionally was prepared only for him.  
As fast as it had taken Montparnasse to fall ill from his mistreated injuries, as fast was his complete recovery once it had set in. Not even one week later, he was working again, pushing his cart through the streets of Paris, delivering leather to the wealthiest and richest of stores. Since his illness, Montparnasse was fuelled more than ever by the burning desire to one day live like these people did, to eat delicious feasts every day, to bathe in the most luxurious of cloths and being showered in gold, silver and money. So, it comes to no surprise to us that on an early morning, before Grimal or his wife had even begun eating their breakfast, Montparnasse walked into the room where Madame Grimal was currently preparing the first meal of the day for her husband and her. He didn’t bang the door against the wall, but he did open it with more strength than normal and more forcefully than he usually did.  
“Good morning, Madame. I am happy to inform you that there is no necessity to make me breakfast this morning as I have decided my work for you is no longer offered.”, Montparnasse exclaimed like an actor proclaiming a dramatic monologue on stage. He pointedly ignored the food cooking over the fire and the bread already laying on the table, both barely enough to feed two people. Madame Grimal looked at Montparnasse as if he was a witch sprouting from a hole in the ground.  
“What kind of rubbish are you talking about boy? Get out, you know we don’t want you to disturb us while we’re eating!” She hushed him away with her wooden spoon, already thinking about a punishment she could inflict on him for having interrupted her in such a rude manner.  
Montparnasse took her by the word.  
It took them two hours before the pair noticed Montparnasse had disappeared. The little belongings he had, mainly a second shirt and a knife he had gotten from God knows where, but which had proven to be very efficient when working with all the meat he got in contact over a day, had disappeared. Madame Grimal did not dare tell her husband the little scene Montparnasse had made in the kitchen that morning. She knew what would happen if she did admit it was her fault their only workforce to exploit was gone and her husband’s wrath would hit her with full force as she was the only one to take it in. She did not want something like that to ever happen again.  
Meanwhile, Montparnasse was already on the other side of the Seine. During one of his many errand runs, he had delivered to a tailor named Joséphine Brilal. In the times of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, her garments and designs had been worn in Versailles and every rich household in Paris envied whoever could afford her work. Now she was old, and her eyesight left to be desired. This visual disability combined with her ever-worsening pain in her hands and her finger joints left her nearly unable to work. With no children and very little money saved, she had no choice but to continue serving clients. To Montparnasse’s great luck and charisma, she had taken quite some liking to him. As he appeared on her doorstep, while she was adjusting a colourful dress to a woman with white hips and heavy bosom, he saw her currently struggling to get new needles to fix the hem of the skirt at the desired length. As fast as possible, Montparnasse went to her aid. It truly was a beautiful skirt the woman was wearing. With great gratitude, Madame Brilal took the needles from his hands. For the next hour, she sent him running across the shop, getting this, putting away that. It comes to no one’s surprise when this evening, as she went to bed, Madame Brilal had a new apprentice in her shop. For the first time in years, Montparnasse did not fall asleep on simple hay but surrounded by fields and mountains of magnificence and beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly longer than the last one. When I began writing this story, I actually did not expect Montparnasse to take over so drastically and that it would take 5 chapters until another canon Les Mis character appears, but what can I do!  
> I nonetheless hope you liked the story so far and please leave a kudo and/or comment if you did!


	3. If one were to think this is the point in the story where the Events bring Goodness, they would be wrong.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse finds a home in a tailor shop and learns some important things about the world he lives in. In the end, things do not turn out as he had hoped.

If you think Montparnasse had achieved the life he wanted simply because he had managed to be hired by Madame Brilal, I must disappoint you. This is not that kind of story with a quick happy ending. Montparnasse was not that kind of person that lived this kind of story.  
It is true, that from the beginning of this new chapter in his life, even Montparnasse believed all his problems had been resolved. It was a wonderful time full of new pleasures. Beginning with the first morning he woke up in the shop, Montparnasse found himself living in what he could not describe as anything else but paradise. Madame Brilal invited him to eat breakfast with her and Montparnasse, who had never tasted oatmeal, felt something bloom inside him the first time she gave him some to try. On the first Sunday he spent at _L’atelier de Joséphine_ she even gave him some cream to eat with it. This was what heaven must have felt like.  
After breakfast, the two of them would open the store. The first thing Montparnasse was tasked to do was rearranging the display window. According to Madame Brilal, it was important that the clientele sees something new each day. This way, they would fear that whatever design they wanted was out if they didn’t buy it immediately and they had something different to admire each time they passed the store. Of course, Madame Brilal didn’t create new outfits for each day, she couldn’t have done so even in her glory days and those were long behind her. Instead, it was Montparnasse’s task to find a way to make everything _look_ new without needing to actually _create_ something new. As early as his second week of work, he would spend his evening and early morning when he could not sleep roaming among the seemingly endless rows of cloth, dresses, blouses, waistcoats and everything else the store of Madame Brilal had to offer. If Montparnasse only forgot himself and the world hard enough, it sometimes seemed as if there was a world full of wonder and beauty if he only walked to the end of the corridor. But the end was nothing else than where he had started, bright light flooding the store through the tall windows, the harsh reality hit Montparnasse each time anew without ever lessening the blow as he watched the dust swirling through the air before setting on the counter or whatever free surface seemed to attract it the most. Slightly disappointed without ever admitting it to himself, Montparnasse would go back to designing the store display. He learned which cloth looked best assorted with a satin dress, learned to recognize which fold pattern thrown together didn’t make the entire ensemble look like something an actor would wear on stage to be flamboyant and obnoxious as to be seen even in the back of the theatre and which coloured neck tie would fit best with a very specific light-yellow shirt. The display window was Montparnasse’s world to create and he was its all-supreme god. Or would have been if there wasn’t one thing Madame Brilal categorically refused he moved or even touched if it wasn’t for dusting it. On the left side of the window was an old looking dress and Montparnasse could not help but wonder why the store owner clung onto this one specific garment so much. The colours were mostly faded from the long hours in the sun and Montparnasse was sure he had seen moth holes at the bottom of the skirt. But every time he even mentioned the dress, Madame Brilal would either tell him to be quiet since he didn’t understand its importance anyway or would get a dreamy look in her eyes and give the impression she was somewhere else. Somewhere Montparnasse’s voice would never reach her.  
It had been two months since Montparnasse had begun working at the tailor shop that the mystery of the old dress was finally solved. It was beginning to get cooler and both new and old clients had come in steadily throughout the day to look at possible winter clothes. Madame Brilal was busy fixing the back of a waistcoat the customer wanted to take home immediately as to wear it to a ball held in his house later that evening, when the every familiar ringing of the little bell fixed above the entry door echoed through the room. Montparnasse had just crouched behind the counter to put away a stack of needles. Curiosity and of course, his magnificent senses of salesmanship, made him peep as to see who had entered the store. It was a new client, one he had never seen before. She carried herself straighter than anyone he had ever seen but not as if somebody had screwed a rod to her spine like he had seen it with to many other women, but with grace and dignity and what seemed to be the unshakable assurance of having found her place in this world and that she belonged right where she was in this very moment, without doubt, without hesitation. She was the most beautiful woman Montparnasse had ever seen. Her bright white hair was twisted into an elegant and complicated bun, held in place by several needles and topped by an emerald green hat. Her dress was nothing out of the ordinary, but she bore it with an air of such sadness Montparnasse had nothing to it compare to. He could not help but take a step forward to be a little closer to her. A gentle smile appeared on her face, making the wrinkles on her skin disappear within the happiness and peace she radiated with.  
“Good afternoon, Madame,” Montparnasse greeted her, bowing slightly. He had seen some of the better dressed men greet Madame Brilal like this. A quiet laugh, clear as shattered glass, escaped the woman in front of him.  
“Well, good afternoon to you as well, my young monsieur. I have never seen you here before.”  
“I’ve begun working for Madame Brilal only recently, Madame.”  
“Ah, good for her! I’ve always told Joséphine she shouldn’t overwork herself so much and get someone to help her! I trust you to keep her safe and to do everything in your might to help her. Would you do that for me, young man?”  
Taken aback by this sudden seriousness, Montparnasse could not help but nod. With the motion on his side the heaviness of the entire situation suddenly seemed to disappear. The same laughter as before echoed through the room once more. With big eyes as if she had suddenly been filled by her early child, the elderly woman turned around, taking in the entirety of the store as if she had never seen it before. Her skirts slightly lifted and twirled. As if on cue, she suddenly stopped right in front of the ugly dress in the display window.  
“Good God! I can’t believe I still have to see this! Boy, tell me, who oversees the display windows?”  
She snapped her fingers at Montparnasse. Nervous, he took a few steps forward. That day especially, he was incredibly proud of the display he had created. In his opinion, it truly showcased the passage from the hot days of summer which where over by now to the slightly colder but even the more so colourful times of autumn.  
“I do, Madame.”  
Like a fury in a hurricane, she turned around, facing him like the wrath of God itself.  
“What made you think it was a good or even a remotely acceptable idea to put this old rag – she pointed at the old dress Madame Brilal had forbidden Montparnasse to remove from the window – into the display? When I first saw you, I expected better!”  
“Well, you see, Madame…” Montparnasse hesitated to answer. He didn’t want to put Madame Brilal in a bad light in front of a costumer. However, he did not want to be held responsible for the horror that was the old yellowed dress which ruined his entire work of the early morning. On top of that, he could not help but think that the woman was right. It truly was an old rag.  
“Madame Brilal forbids me to replace it. I’m not even allowed touch it. I would like nothing more than make something truly and completely beautiful to show everyone what kind of art is created here, but I am unfortunately unable to live out my full potential.”  
With a thoughtful look on her face, the woman looked at Montparnasse, then at the dress and back at Montparnasse again.  
“Yes, that’s the Joséphine I know and have learned to love. Pray tell me, do you know how long she is still occupied with her work?”  
“Uhm, I’m not sure. She is currently with another client, so I would probably say not anytime soon.”  
“Good, that’s enough for me to tell you the story of this dress and why it’s not only incredibly ugly but also why keeping it in display is actually hurting her. Come sit down.”  
As if she belonged here, the shop belonged her and with the grace Montparnasse imagined a queen to have, she had taken place on one of the armchairs reserved for waiting clients. Impatiently, she patted the armchair next to her while looking at Montparnasse with a piercing look. He decided not to make her wait any longer than he had already done. The armchairs were just as comfortable as he had always imagined it. A little dusty maybe. Like a mystery teller, the woman leant over. As if on instinct, Montparnasse mirrored her movement. Her voice was hushed when she spoke.  
“You must know that Joséphine has been a tailor for a very long time and more importantly, she has been very good at what she does for a very long time. When the old Austrian princess, Maria-Antonia, came to Paris for her marriage to Louis XVII, she needed a new dress. This was the one she wore for her presentation to the French people. It was the greatest honour for Joséphine to dress a member of the royal family, and the Dauphine no less! After the revolution and Maria-Antonia’s execution, she somehow managed to retrieve it and has since then never been able to let go of this prime time in her life, even if it meant clinging onto a nearly sixty-year-old gathering of cloth which does nothing but catch dust. By not letting go, not only is she showing that she does nothing else but look back, she also hinders herself from ever making anything better than this dress which as you can see right now, grows more and more tragic as time passes by.”  
The woman’s gaze was now far away. If in the past or in the future, Montparnasse could not tell. They sat next to each other in silence until Madame Brilal came back with the last costumer, this time wearing a fitted aistcoat as he walked through the door of the shop.  
When Madame Brilal saw the woman, she broke out into a smile and welcomed her with open arms.  
“Guenièvre! It’s been so long since I last saw you! You should come more often, I cannot help but feel responsible for how little clothing you have! Montparnasse, be so nice and clean up the needles and threads from the back.” With this order, Montparnasse was left alone to do his chores and Madame Brilal took her next costumer to accomplish her every desire.  
Of course, Montparnasse could not pretend everything was perfect. He could not have expected it to be. The days were long, and he went to bed with aching muscles from having kneeled and squatted all day long in search of lost needle Madame Brilal could now afford to buy anew in case she lost them. The costumers frequenting her store, no matter their age or fashion preference, always saw something to criticise in him. The first time something of this manner had happened, it had been about his hair. A young man, Montparnasse would have guessed him to be in his early thirties, dressed in a tight fitting maroon coat with light grey trousers, had described him as “ _a rat somebody had left lying in the mud for so long the hair resembled the fur of a puli dog._ ” He had expected Montparnasse to be out of hearing range, but the boy had understood the insult very well and could see Madame Brilal blush out of shame in one of the mirrors which were set up all around the shop. The very same evening, she had dragged him to the back of the shop where there was no risk of anyone seeing them and with the big scissors she used to cut cloth pieces down to size, she cut down his hair strand after strand until Montparnasse felt nothing else but naked. It was dark in the backroom which had no windows and even though Montparnasse had never paid attention to his hair or simply cut it with his knife whenever it had begun falling into his eyes, he knew she had only made his looks worse. There were patches of hair missing above and around his ears, making him look as if he suffered from hair loss and his the little hair she had left him on the top did not fall into his eyes like it used to but not stuck out as if it had been replaced with hay. Madame Brilal was the owner of a shop for fashionable clothing but, as Montparnasse realized in this moment, she had no knowledge of what the concept of fashion entailed. He was ruined. He would have no choice but to use the practical knowledge she had to his own advantage. There wouldn’t be anyone else to help him achieve what he wanted. The next morning, Montparnasse began to work.  
At first, he retrieved a pair of scissors. They were small and used to cut threads. Madame Brilal screamed at him and scolded him for his incompetence when he told her he couldn’t find them, but she had given up searching for the things she needed as soon as Montparnasse had begun doing this kind of work for her. The scissors stayed in Montparnasse possession. When he was sure she couldn’t see or hear him, Montparnasse snuck away one of the mirrors the shop possessed and set himself to work. His most important task in this moment was to make himself presentable. The last few strands fell to the floor and Montparnasse’s reflection bore a strange resemblance to a hedgehog, small and very spiky. He did not look presentable in any way, but he did look better than what Madame Brilal had done to him. This was all that matter. The rest he could sort out as his hair grew back. Perfection took time, after all. Secondly, Montparnasse began observing everything around him with meticulous care, beginning with the client’s behaviour. He knew that if he wanted to live in the lap of luxury like they did, he would have to make everyone believe that’s where his righteous place was and always had been. He began walking straight like the gentleman coming in to let their trousers be shortened to accurate length, held his chest out like the lady’s having a corsage fitting. He listened to and emulated their speech to the best of his abilities and copied the way they extended their pinkie finger when handling a cup of tea in the café on the opposite side of the street. He watched how Madame Brilal took measurements and cut cloth before sewing it together, creating something useful out of nearly nothing. He observed how she treated her costumers, always with a certain docility and submission. Montparnasse decided this was not something of his style. He aimed to become better than all of them. In the end, he would become the one with the best craftsmanship. They would require his services and help, and it would be his choice alone whether they deserved it. He collected the scraps of cloth which were left over and spent his evenings trying to meticulously imitate the work he had seen during the day. At first, he simply managed to prick his fingers trying to pull the small stitches which were far too near together to make it easy for him learning this way. It was a disaster. Patience had never been one of Montparnasse’s virtues, but desperate times called for desperate measures.  
In November, Madame Brilal finally gave in to her age. It had been quite some time since she had tasked Montparnasse with small things like cutting threads and sewing on buttons. When the first snow fell, she called him next to her. Rolled out on the table were two huge bands of cloth, one blue duchesse satin and the other a Bordeaux charmeuse one. The silhouettes of the cut pieces were already drawn on in chalk.  
“My fingers hurt today. Cut these out for me,” Madame Brilal said, pointing at the big scissors laying on the cloth. They were the same she had used to cut Montparnasse’s hair. Thankfully, it was slowly growing back. He paid attention to keep it short around his ears and to the best of his abilities on his neck, but it was hard work and his arms only reached so far. However, this did not mean he was not more content with how it looked now compared to before. On the contrary; it was a vast improvement.  
Montparnasse took the scissors and set himself to work. Madame Brilal spent the evening seated in an armchair next to him, overlooking his work. Although she depended on him to complete the work she could no longer do, she was far away from trusting him. After all, he was nothing more than a street boy she had taken pity in and who had not proven himself to be absolutely useless. With argues eyes she supervised the simplest of motions on Montparnasse’s behalf, ready to scold and punish him for the smallest mistake. To her surprise, nothing of this kind happened. Montparnasse’s hands were steady as she could have hoped to be a long time ago and his cuts were clean and precise. Furthermore, he did his work faster than Madame Brilal had ever expected to be possible. Whether she liked to admit it, he had done good work. Of course, she did not confess that much. Instead, she had snorted approvingly, nearly ripped the pieces of fabric from his hands and set herself to the slow and painful task of beginning the actual sewing process. Montparnasse was left to deal with everything else.  
The days dragged on and turned into weeks, turning into months. With every new task and obstacle Madame Brilal faced, Montparnasse was burdened with new work. The days grew longer, and the nights grew shorter. By the time Madame Brilal had nothing left to teach Montparnasse, – Not that she had ever willingly done so. Teaching someone and using them for one’s own personal gain are two very different things after all – it was a rare occasion that she even got out of bed in the morning to look after the shop when it opened. It was less rare of an occasion to have customers come in asking whether Montparnasse was the new owner. To his great displeasure, he wasn’t, and the ugly dress Madame Brilal still insisted on displaying in the window was a daily reminder of his imprisonment. The one improvement was his liberty in dealing with whoever had decided to consult his services that day. Montparnasse was an unlucky fellow and his bones persistently refused to grow. At 12 years old, Montparnasse still had the height of an average child and consequently suffered from the lack of respect customers and everyone else showed him. If he refused to dress them, it was no one’s fault but their own. It was their choice to let someone without skill or knowledge sell them overpriced horridness’s after all.  
As he was working in candlelight, drawing the silhouettes of several pieces for the bodice of a gown some red-headed girl had ordered with him earlier that day, Montparnasse became convinced of one thing: There was nothing left to do for him anymore. He had to find a way out. He had to find the next step in his social ascent, to feel for the next rung on the ladder that would bring him out on top. The only question left was finding something to satisfy his needs. Lying down the piece of chalk, Montparnasse took the candle and went over to his bed. Now that he had decided of the next step in his plan, it was time to find a way to get there.  
Montparnasse liked to begin with the easiest things. As soon as he was finished with his work and Madame Brilal was off to bed – the latter happened more and more frequently earlier than the former –, Montparnasse would sit down at the small desk where Madame Brilal used to write her letters and with painfully detailed hand begin to work on a letter by her handwriting. It was no rare occurrence to see him sit there until the sun came up and the shop called for his attention once more. Stroke after stroke he put the ink to paper, careful to copy the letters to their most exactitude. No one was allowed to question the authenticity of these papers once they were finished. It was a frustrating process interrupted by countless burnt letters, the result of unsatisfactory work.  
Madame Brilal was to die soon, and Montparnasse would make sure he was to inherit the entirety of the shop. Forging her will was only a small necessity for a greater good.  
Montparnasse was finally about halfway done with a body of work he could call himself proud of, when Madame Brilal put spokes through the wheels of Montparnasse’s plan, even though it had never been her intention of doing so. It was already well past noon and Montparnasse was currently working on the sleeves for a ball dress a young woman had ordered earlier this week. It was to be finished for her sister’s wedding who she wanted to show off to, as a revenger for stealing her paramour and tricking him into marrying her. At least that was what she had told him while he had taken her measurements. He did not truly care for the occasion or any reason why she had been pressuring him into telling Madame Brilal she would not pay for anything less than perfection. Montparnasse had barely managed to suppress a scoff when he listened to her. There was no way he would let Madame Brilal anywhere near the craft’s table these days for he could not to bear to be responsible for anything less than the best he could create, something she stopped being able to provide a long time ago as she fell behind him in both skill and creativity in fashion. He could have continued to work as he currently did for a few more hours at least, if he had not needed a special type of golden thread that was nowhere to be found in his near vicinity. Sighing, Montparnasse put the needle down and made his way to Madame Brilal’s room. As the owner of the shop, she had kept the only habitable piece of the building to herself. On the top floor, where no neighbouring houses could hide the sun or throw shadows over everything, as was the case for the rest of the rooms, the walls of her room were free of mildew, enlightened by the sun entering each morning through the windows until it set at the end of the day. It was no rare occurrence that she called for Montparnasse, making him walk up the entire sets of stairs over the 4 flours of the house, yelling at him for being to late according to her, then asking him to go get her something incredibly mundane she could as well have waited for or walked down to get herself, and therefore making Montparnasse walk the entirety of the stairs down and up again. It could even happen several times a day. That Montparnasse’s productivity and efficiency at work were more than hindered by this type of annoying games she liked to play for the sole reason of showing off and proving she still held the power in this store and therefore over him is nothing I need to tell you as it is as obvious as the fact that Madame Brilal had by now become practically useless for Montparnasse and the only things keeping him there were his pride in leaving no work unfinished as well as his determination to lead the wealthy life he deserved, one he needed a spotless record for. There was no way he could allow himself to disappear, having to security on what doing next and no proof of a finished tailor formation.  
When Montparnasse knocked on the door – for Madame Brilal was prone to throwing a tantrum if she was ever disturbed – there was no answer. He knocked a second time. She must have overheard him, for her hearing seemed to worsen with each passing day, or she had thought this to be a new type of game to test his patience, a game he was more and more willing to lose the more he had to suffer through it. Madame Brilal still gave him no answer. Carefully, ready to close the door at any given moment before Madame Brilal decided to throw a book or worse, her scissors she always kept near her, even when she was in bed, after him, Montparnasse stepped into the room. To his suppressed surprise, she was still in bed. He could see her once white bonnet peaking out from under her cover, a luxury she had granted to Montparnasse himself. Slowly, and as silently as possible, Montparnasse approached her. It was unusual for her to sleep in so late, but it was not unheard of, and there was no point in invoking her wrath if he could avoid it. As Montparnasse stood directly next to her bed, she had still not stirred. With extreme caution, as if approaching a wild animal – not that Montparnasse had ever left Paris or had the experience to touch any animal wilder than a street dog – Montparnasse stretched out his arm and lightly shook her. She did not react. Montparnasse shook her harder. She still did not wake up. Exasperated and running out of patience, Montparnasse shook her as if the house was on fire. Naturally, if the house had really been on fire, he would have been too busy protecting himself and the clothes he was working on to care about saving her, but we are talking in comparisons here, so realism is no matter with which to concern us. Madame Brilal did not move one single eyelash. It was in this exact moment that a dubious and somewhat unsettling thought was born in Montparnasse’s brain. Carefully and with great hesitation, he laid his hand on Madame Brilal’s cheek, the only part of her face he could see or access as she was rolled up like a small animal under her cover. Her skin was cold as stone. As if he had just burned himself at an open fire, Montparnasse pulled back his hand immediately.  
There was no doubt. Joséphine Brilal was dead.  
For the first time in his life, Montparnasse was at loss for ideas what to do. He knew from experience and tales of the others when he had still been working for Grimal that he needed to do something against the body. If he left it in the bed as it currently was, the smell would become unbearable way to soon. But how would he do that without raising suspicions and getting unwanted attention? Pacing through the room, Montparnasse grabbed one idea by its tail just to let it go the next second in favour of another one. The sun had already begun to set when he finally left the shop, putting up the _closed_ sign inside the glass door and leaving to do his highly necessary business.  
Montparnasse could not remember the last time he had put foot inside a church. He knew he must have been in one at least once, for he was baptised. However, it had been done without Montparnasse’s permission and since then, he had found more pressing matters than going to church and say Amen to be worthy of his time. His footsteps echoing, making him sound like a herd of bulls, Montparnasse made his way between the banks of wood, covered in shadows thrown by the many chandeliers and plaster decorations, all the while the many icons adorning the walls gazed down upon him. It seemed as if his less than quiet arrival had been noticed for before Montparnasse could even fully arrive in front of the altar and contemplate the interior of the chancel and apse, a man with dishevelled hair barely tying his morning robe together entered through a door on Montparnasse’s left.  
“My son, what brings you to me on this late hour?”, he asked, looking down at Montparnasse, trying to discern his face beneath the brim of his hat.  
“I have an urgent matter I need help for, and I believe you are the man in whose area of responsibility this type of topic falls, Monsieur.”  
The priest appeared to be in a bad mood, which might have been linked to both being woken up abruptly in the middle of the night and the fact that Montparnasse still refused to take off his top hat. When he heard Montparnasse’s answer, it appeared his opinion of the teenage boy in front of him managed to reach an unprecedented low.  
“Father,” the priest stammered, clearly still taken aback from the lack of submission shown by the other.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“It is tradition to address a priest as Father. That’s the rule in our Holy Church.”  
Montparnasse barely managed to hide his sneer. He had not come here to find a new family, let alone a father, a position he had never found empty or missing in his life. There were more urgent matters to tend to.  
“I am not here for traditions or rules, Monsieur. I am here because I do not know what to do with the owner of the shop I work at who died last night.”  
The distaste in the priest’s demeanour did not disappear. However, he now seemed to at least be interested in what Montparnasse had to tell him.  
“My son, I am glad you decided to rush to find me in these dire times of need for you. Please let me get dressed in something more appropriate and then I will join you to resolve this matter how the Lord wants us to.”  
10 minutes later, the two of them were on their way to Madame Josephine’s Taylor Shop.  
For the next three days, the shop was closed. The interior was dark and without any sign of life. Passer-By’s could read on a sign hanging in the entrance door the following:  
_We must unfortunately announce we will be closed for a yet unspecified duration for personal reasons. We hope to offer you an even better service when we open again._  
When Montparnasse opened the shop once more, there was no sign of the so-called personal reasons he had alluded to on the sign. An astute observer could have notice that nothing had changed in comparison to the time before the abrupt and unforeseen closure. Everything was still the same. Simply the old dress in the window had disappeared. But one does not notice the details when good changes to greatness, and the passer-by’s where not extremes resistant to the average.  
Whistling a happy melody while he was working, Montparnasse went on as he had always done since taking over most of the work Madame Brilal had refused to do. Since closing the shop and not needing to take care of any customers, he had gotten a comfortable head start on all the orders he still had to finish. Madame Brilal’s death had first thrown him into a panic, but looking back on it, it was probably the best thing she could have done. There was no need to worry about what to do as to escape her clutches anymore. He could build up this business in peace, become the best and most reputed tailor in Paris and, consequentially, in all of France. There was nothing left stopping him from achieving his dreams and everything he deserved. Or so Montparnasse thought. 

The day had the potential to be wonderful. It was cold, as was usual for late November, but the sun was out, and it was Sunday, meaning Montparnasse could close the shop earlier, rewarding himself with some time to relax. He was just rolling up a long piece of deep red velour when he heard a knock on the door. It was sharp and stung in his ears, different from the usual gloved hands tapping shyly for fear of disturbing him during important work after closing hours. Annoyed, Montparnasse put the roll of fabric aside, walking to the door. Waiting in front of it and still knocking on the glass with his cane, was a man dressed in a suit and a heavy, warm looking coat, with a top head on his head. When he saw Montparnasse, he began knocking against the glass even more insistently. With a growing sense of anger, Montparnasse opened the door. He hoped the man had a good reason to disturb him. If not, he would find a way to make him regret it.  
“Good afternoon, Monsieur. – The man tipped his hat in greeting. – Am I correct in the assumption that you are the apprentice of the late Madame Joséphine Brilal?”  
Montparnasse nodded, wanting to say something, but the man left him no time for that.  
“Very well. First, we are sorry for your loss. Please accept our most sincere condolences.” Behind the man, Montparnasse could discern another figure, slightly tipping their hat at him as his presumed colleague talked. It was hard to discern any details for they were to distinguish in the dimming light of the setting sun. There was no time to waste thinking about this second person, for the first man required Montparnasse’s attention once more as he continued speaking.  
“Second, we are here to talk to you in the name of the Madame Brilal’s bank. Now that she has regrettably passed away, she cannot pay back her debt she has accumulated with us in her lifetime. As per the contract she signed, we are entitled to seize any personal belongings of hers if she ever turns out to be irrevocably unable to pay her debt.” He stared intently at Montparnasse, who was still standing in the doorway, blocking any possible path inside the shop.  
“So?” Montparnasse had hoped for a good excuse justifying this disturbance but instead he had gotten two office donkeys who apparently knew that Madame Brilal was dead but did not understand what that meant. Montparnasse had nothing to do with her debt and he wanted nothing to do with it. If they wanted any of her personal possessions, they should have gone to the graveyard. There was nothing else left which belonged to her than the clothes the priest had buried her in.  
“Monsieur…”, the man looked as uncomfortable in his skin as people who seem to have been born in suits and uniform could possibly be, “I fear I haven’t expressed clearly enough. We are here to inform you this house and all objects inside it now belong to the Bank. Furthermore, as a forbidden resident, it is our duty to make sure you leave and cannot live here anymore.”  
Montparnasse scoffed. They thought he would allow them to play their little games with him. He would show them what it meant to know every single dirty trick Paris had ever created.  
“That won’t be possible. She left me all of her possessions in her will before she passed away.”  
Dead silence swept over them like wind over desert dunes. The man looked at Montparnasse, the surprise clearly visible on his features. It was no often occurrence that someone resisted him so calmly and self-assured. Until now, every person he had met in a comparable situation had tried to beg to let them have a bit more time, so they could pay back the debt or asked him for any other way to salvage them. He had always been an impartial judge doing nothing but his job and this day would not mark the beginning of his failure. He would make sure of it.  
“Please show us proof us this will. You must understand that we need physical confirmation of your assumptions.”  
Smirking, Montparnasse reached inside his vest. As fast as it had appeared, his smile vanished. Like the red sea over the Egyptians, the realisation crashed over him. He had been so stupid! After finishing burying Madame Brilal and successfully taking over her shop, he had never given a second thought to the transference confirmation he had been working on, let alone a will. Of course, the customers did not care who oversaw the shop, as long as he manufactured them clothes and outfits in an appropriate deadline and quality, especially because he had done so for quite some time now. He had never needed a legal document proving he owned the building or anything else regarding his life after Madame Brilal did not provide her securing presence over him. He had never needed it until now. He was left with nothing to show as to prove and assert his claim.  
“Monsieur?” The man was growing impatient, the tip of his cane scraping against the floor. Montparnasse had to think, and he had to think fast.  
“I fear I am not in possession of such a document. But I can retrieve it from the church for you. I would gladly present it to you and your bank tomorrow.”  
As he heard this, something akin to pity washed over the bank employee’s face, if he had been able to feel such an emotion towards his employer’s clients or their associates. This truly was not the day he would begin to fail at his job.  
“Monsieur, we both know it is not the church who takes care of such things. It hasn’t for a long time. Thus, knowing that you do not, in fact, possess the required document to confirm your possession of this estate or any other objects within it, my colleague and I will proceed to fulfil what we are paid to do. Brutus.”  
As he said these words, the man stepped aside. Finally, Montparnasse could fully take in the person standing behind him. It wasn’t a man. It even felt unfit to describe him as a colossus. He was not tall by any means, but he was stocky, more muscles than anything else. Montparnasse could distinguish scars protruding from his scalp, the testimonies of one bar fight too many.  
Without hesitation or remorse, the brute grabbed Montparnasse by his collar and shirt and lifted him over his head. Next thing he knew, he was flying, landing on the cold hard ground with a dumb thud. Burning pain as he hadn’t experienced it since beginning to work at the shop shot through his back, knocking the air out of his lungs. As fast as he could, Montparnasse tried to go back on his feet. He wasn’t given enough time for that. With a pointed and piercing sting, the first man’s cane sunk into his shoulder.  
“We must apologize for this ungentlemanlike treatment, but I know what people of your kind are like. Do not believe we did not do our research when we learned poor, naïve Madame Brilal had hired a new apprentice. Do not believe either that we do not know you killed her to get hold of her store, so you could con her noble customers. Scum of the street is all the same. Please do us the pleasure of not disturbing us anymore. It would be most bothersome if Brutus here were to have to resign to more drastic method as to protect our possessions from delinquents like you. Good night, Sir.”  
Without giving Montparnasse the chance to raise another word, he put his foot down against Montparnasse’s chest and lifted his cane. Seconds later, the metal handle connected with Montparnasse’s temple. It was 6 in the afternoon and the world turned dark before his eyes.  
During the 15 years he had spent in Paris, Montparnasse had woken up shivering or covered in mud quite often, sometimes even both simultaneously. However, there had never been a time he had felt as awful as this. Is was raining and he was freezing to the bones, his clothes clinging onto his skin and making everything much worse than it already was. The windows of Madame Bilal’s- no, of Montparnasse’s tailor shop were dark but the sun was shining weekly from overhead. There was no way for him to know how much time had passed since the employees of the Bank had overtaken Montparnasse. Now, he was left alone in the dirt, eyeing the empty store and paper, they had placed inside the store. Montparnasse tried to get closer to read it, but all his efforts were in vain. His body simply screamed in agony and refused to get up. The rage inside Montparnasse was building up quickly, like the wrath of the people before the revolution. With this rage came a dawning realisation. Montparnasse had grown soft. When he had been staying with Grimal, he had survived much worse than this, had worked in conditions ten times as hard. Now, he was lying on the dirty floor, without a plan, without a roof over his head for the night and without acceptable clothes on his back. He had been lulled by a false sense of security, by the peace and quiet the ownership over the store had given him. Had Montparnasse finished forging his papers, he could have asserted his claims over the shop and stayed there, until he was old and gray and dying of boredom. However, all these were now dreams, that had flown out a window he had forgotten to close. All these years of hard work had been for naught. He would have to find a new way to find his old glory. Cruel, merciless, invincible. But first, Montparnasse had to get up, both figuratively and literally.  
A person like Montparnasse is resourceful, both by history and by nature and the moment his body had touched the ground, a plan for revenge had taken form inside his mind. It wasn’t outstanding, or particularly complicated, but it was easily implemented and teleologically efficient, the only two things he required in this very moment. His goal was to be splendid. This would be only one more step into this direction. 

When the two gentlemen from the bank would come back to the store to empty it of all its monetary and valuable content, they would find nothing but broken glass, splintered floorboarding and smoke coming up from a pile of burning fabric. Only one thing had been left behind: an old gown on a headless mannequin, with holes housing moths at the hem, all colour faded from the fabric; a pale imitation of its now past glory. Anything of value was gone or Montparnasse had taken it with him when they had kicked him out of his home. There was nothing left for them to save.  
For Montparnasse however, life was good — or at least much better than he had started it all those years ago. He was still scrawny, Paris was still a medal with two very different faces, but now he was living on the edge of it instead of the dark, humid, and slightly mildewy side. Pockets full of money and a fine assortment of fabrics he could work with under his arm, Raphaël Montparnasse was ready to make a name for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter I wrote before completely forgetting about this fic for 2 years, so from chapter 4 onwards, it is very likely the writing style will read very differently. I have absolutely no control over how I express myself in english at any given moment, I'm very sorry, I hope you'll be able to forgive me and still enjoy this fic.  
> Leave a comment and tell me what you liked (or if you liked it at all? If you do not have a three page academic essay at hand, keysmashes are fine)!


	4. We return to familiar but unwanted territory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse begins his own life, an independent one. As it turns out, not everyone wants him to succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like I said in the last chapter, I took a 2 year hiatus between writing the first half of the story and everything that will be uploaded next.   
> I hope you will like it anyway! Please leave a kudo and/or tell me what you liked in the comments, I love to hear your thoughts!

Madame Brilal had been a saint compared to Grimal, yet she had still profited off Montparnasse’s work without a slice of thank or recognition and thus, he did not regret her passing, nor had he ever thought of doing so. He figured, however, that tutoring him and taking him in as an apprentice had been the most fruitful decision she had made in her life and for that he should not be ungrateful. It had turned out to be a profitable arrangement for the both of them, at least as long as she had been alive. Afterwards, it had been a very profitable situation for Montparnasse only, as short as it had lasted.  
Now, people knew Montparnasse. He was a member of society, and a skilled one at that. After the _very_ unfortunate fire that had taken the tailor shop out of the hands of its juridical owner, Montparnasse had needed to form a new base for the life he was to lead. It was a difficult task, but no impossible one and it seemed that luck and destiny had taken a liking to him, for as he was walking down the street, eyes fixed on a goal he could not see yet, a hand grabbed his arm and a pretty — rich by the looks of her dress — young woman stopped him in the middle of the crowd. She was leaning out of the window of a carriage. Montparnasse recalled her faintly, but in no detail. He grabbed her hand to kiss it and remove it from his jacket all in one small movement.   
“Mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to see you again.”  
He smiled at her and she giggled, obviously charmed. Then her gaze grew more critical and she took in Montparnasse’s appearance from head to toe, frowning. He caught himself quickly, and smiled, playing the part of the bashfully embarrassed.   
“I am terribly sorry to have been caught in such an attire. You see-“ Montparnasse looked down at his ripped jacket, the ashes on his shirt and the mud covering his trousers. He was not yet far enough from the shop to make the story unbelievable. A group of men carrying buckets full of water were hurrying towards them, spilling half in the process. “-the shop burned down.”  
The young lady covered her open mouth in shock. Had she been a customer? Montparnasse’s work was quite known in the city, but she seemed more touched by the news than he had expected her to be.   
“Monsieur Montparnasse! How tragic! Are these the- everything you managed to save?”  
Monsieur Montparnasse? No one had ever called him that before and Montparnasse felt tickled in a place of flattery he had only known to exist in the very back of his mind. Maybe tragedy was his greatest luck, even if it was self-produced.   
He put on a devastated face.   
“Yes, these fabrics are all I have left. I was looking for someplace to store them, but-“ Before he had the opportunity to finish his sentence, the woman had let out a sharp cry.  
“Oh no! Annabelle’s gown for the ball? Tell me, Monsieur, did it fall victims to the flames as well?”   
Had the young woman looked shocked and worried before, it was nothing compared to the look of horror that graced her face now. Montparnasse had no idea what gown she was talking about, for the names of his customer’s eluded him as soon as they left the store, but that did not truly matter in this moment. He had the inkling that this woman and her sister’s ball gown were hiding a great opportunity he could not afford to miss.   
“I fear so, Mademoiselle. Nothing could be saved except what am I carrying with me right now.” Helplessly, he lifted his arms slightly to point out the fabric he had carefully rolled up before leaving the shop behind to its untimely demise. Before he had lowered them again, the woman had already opened the door of the carriage and pushed Montparnasse back.   
“No, no, no, this will not do. How horrible, Monsieur! Please, get in, allow me to help you. Please come with me, we have room and tools at home. Oh, Goodness, I do not want to image what would happen if I had not met you here, Monsieur! DRIVER!”  
She had a surprisingly powerful voice. The driver turned around.   
“Load these fabrics onto the luggage rack. Quickly! And be gentle!”, the woman said, then turned back to Montparnasse.   
“Please, get in.”   
She stepped back and sat down once more. Montparnasse watched with bewilderment as the driver practically ripped the fabrics out of his grasp and threw it over the metal bars fixed to the top of the carriage. He then fixed them with the leather straps that were attached to the sides. The woman frantically waved at Montparnasse to usher him closer. Montparnasse hurried inside the carried. No sooner had he sat down on the opposite padded bench that the door slammed close. A moment later, the carriage jerked into motion and rattled down the street.   
Montparnasse had life experience, he had diverse knowledge about every kind of situation he had ever imagined himself to possibly find himself in. Nevertheless, as he was sitting in the carriage, looking at the rich woman who must have been in the tailor shop once but whom he had no other knowledge of, he was at loss for words.  
“Fortuna truly smiled upon us and made us meet, Monsieur Montparnasse. What would we have done if I had not found you! My lord, what would you have done, living in the streets like this, and without any proper clothes!”  
She continued to ramble on. Montparnasse did not know, what to make of her words. Although not in great detail, he had known what he would do, as the loss of the tailor shop had been a conscious choice. Now there was a near stranger, who had dragged him into her personal vehicle and continued to talk without pause, making it impossible to ask a question while they were driving to a place of unknown nature.   
“So, when will the dress be finished?”  
Montparnasse was ripped from his thoughts by the curious yet expectant voice of his freshly appointed host. As it seemed, she had finished her monologue and asked him a question.   
Montparnasse did his best to look sorry. He was not sure he was convincing anyone, but it was worth a try. She did not seem to be the kind of person to take lightly on being ignored.   
“Mademoiselle, as you most certainly understand, these are very special circumstances for me, I do not know where I will be able to sleep tonight-“  
“Was the tailor shop your house as well? Monsieur, you poor soul, first the passing of your beloved mentor and now you have lost both your home and your workplace, all in one night! My family will take you in, we have money and place aplenty. There is nothing for you to worry about.”  
Montparnasse had not worried for one moment. The most he had risked was being thrown from the carriage if she had taken insult and his clothes could not get any worse. Truly, the question was rather how generous the woman was with her offer, rather than self-serving. Montparnasse was well aware of the quality of his work and other people were as well. It would not do for him to be turned into a person tailor by some rich woman with nothing in mind but to impress her rivals instead of the true value of the clothing she had to wear to do so.   
The carriage slowed down, the shaking lessened, and they came to a halt.   
“Have we arrived already? Monsieur, welcome in my family’s humble estate,” said the woman and shyly nodded to the building outside. The door on the right side of the carriage opened and Montparnasse had no choice but to get out to take the new environment in. He had paid no attention to the road of their travel and was completely lost as to his current location.  
The _estate_ as the woman called it turned out to be a courtyard, surrounded by a 4-story building. Montparnasse had been right. She was rich; or at least her family was. This wasn’t surprising, her sister had been able to order a ballgown from him after all, but it felt good to be proven right.   
The entrance door opened, and two women rushed outside, calling for Josephine. Was this the name of the woman who had stopped Montparnasse and brought him here? The younger one of the two new women had a striking resemblance with the woman from the carriage, while the older one had immediately turned around and was shouting for servants to help the driver unload. Of course, additional load was not needed. Montparnasse had carried the rolls of fabric himself, after all, and he would have continued to do so. However, the younger woman had already fixated on Montparnasse as if he was the dress of her dreams. Maybe he was? After all, the woman had said that her sister had ordered a ballgown.   
“Monsieur Montparnasse! What a lovely surprise! I had not expected to receive news or see you again until at least next week. What brings you here?”  
Before Montparnasse could utter a word, the woman cut him off.   
“Annabelle, a terrible tragedy has occurred! Can you imagine, Monsieur Montparnasse’s house, including the tailor shop, burned down. These fabrics were the only thing he could save!”  
She pointed at the driver, who was unloading the roads of fabric. Come to think of it, it truly wasn’t much. They were good for inspiration and could carry a whole piece to greatness, but much too expensive for pragmatic use - lining, padding, hem.   
Annabelle opened her eyes wide and starred at Montparnasse. Maybe this allowed her to fully grasp his appearance, as her gaze racked over him from top to bottom, shock apparent on her face with each passing moment.   
“How kind of you to bring him here, Josephine. Maman! Have you heard the news? Madame Brilal’s shop burned down with everything inside! Come in, we will have tea, you must tell us everything. And get changed! Fate has not been kind to you.”  
She gripped his sleeve and dragged him behind her. Montparnasse wondered if not one of her certainly expensive teachers had ever told her that taking people against their will and without their informed opinion was impolite, but considering her sister’s behaviour, it was possible that these rules only applied to people of their standing.  
No sooner had they sat down and a cup of tea in their hand, Annabelle asked the question Montparnasse expected to have driven her near insane ever since she learned that her ball gown had been reduced to cinder.   
“So, Monsieur, how long had you expected to work on my dress.”  
Montparnasse did not even know what dress she was talking about. Annabelle must have had the desire to please everyone when she had come in to order it, or Montparnasse would have remembered at leas one thing about the design he had crafted for her. With the tea slowly cooling in the porcelain cup he had yet to take a sip from, he could feel a headache creeping into his eyes. But they were rich. And this was a start. Now, the only thing left was to make it a good one and size the opportunity until every single drop of its blood had run dry.   
“Of course, Mademoiselle, I’m sure you understand that with wishes so exquisite and expectations so high as yours-“ Montparnasse wanted to gag at the overly sweetened bile that was pouring out of his mouth. “I was prepared to spend at least a few weeks on your dress. Unfortunately, all the work and time already invested…” He looked over her shoulder, as if in deep thought and drank a small sip of tea, following the movement of Josephine, who was sitting beside her sister and opposite Montparnasse. It tasted good, but not worth the price some stores claimed for a small package of leaves. The two sisters gave each other a disappointed look. Montparnasse completely missed it.   
“Yes, your work is truly breath taking, Monsieur, it is understandable that you time is of the essence to get the desired results. However, the ball is already next Sunday, and- My point is, you currently do not have any other clients, as their orders and their information burnt down with the rest of the store. I am ready to offer you everything you need: fabric, tools, thread, paper, space, peace and quiet. Everything you could possibly desire. This gown is as important as my life. You already agreed once to sew a masterpiece as only I could wear it, I’m am pleading you: agree once more. I need it until this weekend. Until the ball.”  
Montparnasse looked pensive. All in all, there was no reason not to agree. He could finish the dress, no matter which one, the time was ample enough if he had no other projects taking over his attention. If it was true what Annabelle said, it would be cheaper for him, as she would buy all the material he needed. However, there was something about the way she had asked him, as if it was nothing more than a formality, as if he had already said yes by pure virtue of having agreed to the work under vastly different circumstances.   
“Mademoiselle, I understand your urge, however, I fear the result would not turn out to your completely satisfaction if I were to start afresh. You see, with all the other worries which occupy my mind, finding new lodgings, food, new clothes to begin with… The result would not be something I could sell you in good conscience.”  
Annabelle and Josephine exchanged quick glances. In their entire life, they had never had one day, not even one moment, in which basic necessities like food, clean water, a roof over their head or the extravagant clothes their had worn every day up to this one had not done anything else but appear out of thin air, without a second thought of their part. The mere thought that a person could prioritize these things — trivialities, really — over the most important day of Annabelle’s life, her first chance at finding a suitor her parents had not chosen for her, seemed absurd. Once more, Annabelle examined Montparnasse’s attire and made all the wrong conclusions. Surely, she thought, he is embarrassed to have been found out in such laughable attire. He hides it well, but Josephine’s visit must have taken him by complete surprise. He was still carrying the fabric he could save when she found him. There had been no time for him to prepare himself to ask her to be given the opportunity to make her a dress once more.  
Annabelle was under the impression to be a very generous person. She was not completely wrong, as there were people who had simply expected the work to be done, no matter the outside circumstances. But she was not right either, as she was utterly incapable of taking herself and her desires out of the equation.   
“These shall be none of your worries, Monsieur Montparnasse. You can live here for the time it takes you to finish your dress. Clothes, food, everything that could distract you from your work will be brought to you.”  
She clapped her hands and one of the servants disappeared behind a richly decorated door.   
Montparnasse sat up straight and put the cup of tea on its saucer and the saucer on the table. It was a good offer. Annabelle offered her the entire household for the simple work of making her a dress to impress whatever clown needed to finally realize she existed. It was a present he would be a fool not to take advantage of.   
Montparnasse smiled with all his teeth.   
“In this case, Mademoiselle Annabelle, it would be my pleasure to make this dress for you once more.”  
Exited, Annabelle clapped her hands. Montparnasse had found home. This was the house, the environment he deserved.   
The only task he had to concentrate on was to make sure everyone understood that he belonged here. He was no puppy to show off for one trick he could do. He deserved to live here. More than anyone.  
***  
Montparnasse had not been wrong when he had decided he deserved this kind of life. He took to it like a fish to the water. From the moment the servants had showed him to one of the guest rooms of the house, new clothes already laid out, he had felt right at home. The luxury, the decadence, all of this had been made for him and he had been born to take advantage of it.   
The work on the dress was not enough to take up all the time Annabelle and Josephine had given him until the ball. Whenever they ushered him into the salon to show off his work to their guests, Montparnasse took great care in working much slower than he needed to. All this time was much better spent on examining his new subjects. The way they spied on one another. Which part of the decoration earned envious whispering, and which got laughed at. The small groups that formed as if they were diplomats on international retreat, all only interested in their own advantage, ready to overlook one another’s desires if it managed to further one owns position. It seemed Josephine and Annabelle’s Salon was the main battlefield for the rich youth of Paris to cater at. And Montparnasse was the true spy in their midst. The only skilful one at that.   
In all the time Montparnasse had spent sewing hems, tightening corsets, sweet talking to clients, he had expected that living their life would solve all his problems and fulfil all his desires. There was one thing he had not expected. The longer he spent in their circles, the more insufferable their company became. It was as if he was witnessing a skewed and torn reflection of everything he had imagined. It had started when a young man, Annabelle was ogling his behind and enraptured by every word that left his mouth, was examining the sleeve of the dress. Montparnasse would have like nothing more but rip the fabric from his fingers, but he contained himself and continued to work on a piece for the padded collar.   
“How generous of you to take him in, Annabelle. As it seems his sewing skills are not half bad either.”  
He smiled and drank from his champagne flute. Annabelle giggled like an arrogant goose. Montparnasse thought about throwing the dress into the fireplace for a split second before regaining his senses. He had a reputation to uphold and he would not allow this pompous child to make him ruin it.  
“Hey, Tailor!”, Annabelle’s friend called over.   
Montparnasse looked up without raising his head.   
“Yes?”  
The man glance at Annabelle and Josephine in disgust.   
“Pretty puppet clothing you are making there.”  
Montparnasse saw how Annabelle turned away in shame of having her future ball attire be labelled like a child’s plaything. Hopefully, she would not make him change everything as soon as her _guest_ was gone.  
“I’m impressed you have such a fine eye for toys, Monsieur.” Montparnasse could not hold back the biting comment. Maybe he should have, for the friend was not pleased with the answer. Now, Montparnasse’s only hope for his physical well-being was that the rules of public conduct were protecting him from getting any more kicks which could potentially break bones or render him unconscious. After all, he had already been manhandled more often than the average citizen would in their entire lives, he was perfectly allowed to be saved from this type of treatment by behavioural conventions, thank you very much. The man was aware of this rule himself. He sneered at Montparnasse, stepped closer to examine the dress once more and then he stumbled. Thankfully for Annabelle, the gown remained undamaged. After all, what kind of friend would this man be if he did not pay attention to his acquaintance’s material belongings. Montparnasse was not granted the luck of being spared. The man’s slight stumble left him wet from head to waist, drenched in champagne. The padded collar he had been sewing had turned into a casualty as well.   
“Pardon my clumsy behaviour, tailor. But then again, you could use the refreshment. It might be the only time you get granted such a luxury.” He laughed. Annabelle and Josephine joined right in. Their embarrassment over his jab at their future wardrobe had not been enough to cover their insatiable desire to be granted the man’s appreciation.   
“Jean-François, do not be so mean to Monsieur Montparnasse. The work he does for me is excellent!”  
No sooner had she finished uttering her poor defence of Montparnasse that she broke out into hilarious laughter once more.   
What a pompous brat.   
Montparnasse stood up and referenced a slight bow.   
“Mademoiselles, Monsieur, please excuse me. I am certainly not fit to be graced by your eyes with my current appearance. I will take care of the dress on a later date.”  
Without waiting for their response, he turned around on his heels and exited towards his room. There was no sense in taking the dress with him. Annabelle and Josephine would make sure no damage, not a single thread askew would happen to the dress while they were in the room with it. No one would be allowed to spill their drink onto the pile of sewn together fabric without having to fear serious consequences.   
Montparnasse aspired to glory and respect – this did not mean that he had not perfected the practical skills which had allowed his survival in the more dire times of his existence. Living with the two sisters and their families had its advantages (soft beds, warm rooms and fantastic food among others) but the stuffiness and the rules binding him at every twist and turn were too much. It was as he was being suffocated alive. Did these people not feel it? The oppression of their conventions, their expectations towards one another and themselves?   
In his room, Montparnasse changed quickly from the bourgeois attire the servants had given him — nice to feel but horrible to look at — to the much simpler clothes he had arrived in only a few days prior. They had been washed and while certainly not up to the trends and fashion, they were exactly what Montparnasse needed for the place he wanted to make a visit to. One, where he would finally be on top once more instead of being treated like a skilled human lap dog. The moment he let his fingertips lose their grasp on the wall he had been inching along to get out of sight of the house and the soles of his shoes sank into the mud covering the smaller streets of Paris, his lungs filled with the stinking air of the city. This was what he had been longing for. The freedom, the admiration someone of his talent and skill deserved. In the end, people like Annabelle and Josephine were good clients and the treasure island where the payment laid, but they were not the most entertaining brood the coble stone of the _intra muros_ had birthed. It was only a 10-minute walk to rectify that.   
The waitress who had told Montparnasse all those years ago that he would grow up handsome had since then long left the bar, but the locale itself still existed and rejoiced in its popularity across all people who were not afraid of spending their time in anything less than excellent company. As he stepped through the door, Montparnasse was greeted with the usual joy and excitement all patrons of the pub achieved after the first pint of beer or two glasses of wine for the more exquisite ones of the bunch.   
“Montparnasse, my friend! Only two pieces the hour for a pretty face like yours!”, Alouette, the favourite of the owner screamed across the room, in joyful laughter before the man next to her demanded her attention once more. Montparnasse made a mental note to free of her misery while he was still here, even if it was only for half an hour. There was a pair of pearl earrings he could sell her weighing in his pockets and he could not wait to get rid of it. But first, he needed something to drink. He needed only to make a sign to the barkeeper — a joyous brute with laughter capable to make the house shake — and a glass of cheap red wine was brought immediately. It was not served with a bow, nor was it well polished, but it tasted just as well as anything the two sisters were ready to give him, only with half the pretence and twice the satisfaction of drinking it.   
Life was good for Montparnasse. He would not mind if it stayed this way for a little while until he decided it was time to ascent to the next rung of the ladder.   
Thankfully, Montparnasse did not believe in a fate or destiny he could have angered in any way, for all his plans of profiting of his current form of employment for wealth and recognition were shattered into a thousand pieces and buried six feet as soon as he came back to the two sister’s home.   
The entire household was in loud commotion. Montparnasse had already seen from afar that far too many rooms were lit up for this time of day. Maybe the male guest — whom he still did not know the name of — had invited some more friends over. Or someone had died? Maybe the mother? She had not seemed old enough to succumb to anything in a matter of a few hours and had seemed perfectly healthy this morning. Maybe her heart had not been able to bear her daughter’s bad taste in men when she discovered how abysmal her flame’s character truly was.   
By the time he had reached the front door, Montparnasse had not yet found a satisfactory reason for the confusion that was unmistakably going on inside the house. The screams and shouts could be heard from the streets, although it was impossible to distinguish what was being said.   
Montparnasse stepped through the front door and handed the doorman his overcoat. The man seemed startled. “Monsieur, I did not know you had left-“  
For the fraction of a moment, Montparnasse was angry at himself. Since he had left without telling anyone, left _through the window_ no less, it was only to be expected that no one remembered him leaving. And even though he was now sleeping in a luxurious bed, dining regularly with one of the wealthiest families of Paris, he was not free to move however he pleased. He was accountable for every movement he made, every walk he took.   
He should have remembered to go back in through the window. It was too late for that, however. The chances of doing so undetected when the entire house and staff was awake where infinitely small. He would simply have to remember it next time. Now, he would simply have to play along.   
“If you don’t remember me, you are clearly not attentive enough for your position.”  
Before the doorman could retaliate in indignated fashion, Montparnasse cut him off.   
“Do not worry about your employment. I will not tell them about your mishap. Before the servant could say a single word, Montparnasse had strut on into the parlour. This was the first place he could witness the true chaos that was going on inside the household.   
Maids, servants, family members; everyone was running around, left to right, screaming frantically, it took a few moments until Montparnasse managed to stop one of the chamber maids — not bad looking, all things considered — to explain him what was actually going on.   
“Mademoiselle Josephine’s pendant, Monsieur! The one with the illustration of her late father! It has disappeared!”  
Before Montparnasse could pry any more information for her, she had disappeared, ripped herself from his grasp and hurried into the next room. Montparnasse walked on until he had reached the salon. Josephine, Annabelle, their mother and two female friends, whom Montparnasse had never invested his time and energy in to learn their names wear sitting down and drinking tea, while discussing loudly and energetically. They only stopped when Montparnasse stepped closer.  
“Good Evening, Mademoiselles. Madame.” He bowed in greeting.   
“Ah, Monsieur Montparnasse. I had not expected you to return this early.” Annabelle looked flustered. So they had noticed his leaving. Montparnasse would leave through the front-door next time. It would make it easier for everyone. Now was not the time to anger his hosts, however. He decided to look apologetic.   
“I have been told one of your necklaces has mysteriously disappeared?” As he finished his question, Josephine had already broken down into sobs. It seemed the necklace was truly of important value to her. Hopefully, she would find it soon. There was nothing interesting if she needed to drown her sorrows all day. If things got worse, it might even affect his payment. Now, Montparnasse felt awkward for making her cry. He had never needed to console anyone before and standing helplessly beside the other woman whispering soothing words into Josephine’s ears felt even more useless and frowned upon. There was only one thing left to do to free Montparnasse of this insufferable situation he had gotten himself into.  
“I will immediately join the search team. An item of such value must be retrieved as quickly as possible!”  
He turned around, heels scrapping over the carpet covering the wooden flooring and stopped dead in his tracks as the insufferable friend from earlier stepped into the room.   
He was holding up a necklace. A pendant, to be specific. All eyes were fixed on him.  
“I have found the pendant!” His voice was overflowing with triumph. Josephine ran up to him and threw herself around his neck, babbling barely understandable words of thanks. It was only then that he seemed to notice Montparnasse’s presence. The man’s smile disappeared, and he slowly pushed Josephine away from him, forcing her to let him go.  
“What is it, Louis-François?”   
“Well, the necklace- I do not wish to interfere in any of your personal business, Mademoiselle Josephine…”  
“You could never interfere, Louis! Tell me, I beg you, what gives you this miserable face?”  
“Well-“ He turned around to fully face Montparnasse. Everyone starred at him. From one moment to the other, he was put on the spot, and worst for him, he had not a single inkling as of why.   
“The pendant, you see- It was in your tailor’s room.”  
Montparnasse had never liked the man, had never trusted him. Nevertheless, a daunting feeling of betrayal washed over him like ice-water. He had not touched the pendant, much less kept it in his room unprotected as he went out like some amateur. Who did this man even think he was?   
“How dare you-“  
“Monsieur Montparnasse!” The voice of Josephine and Annabelle’s mother cut through the commotion like a freshly sharpened knife through meat. She had stood up and ripped the pendant from Louis-François’ Hand.   
“Follow me.” Without looking back to make sure he complied, she strode out of the room. Josephine has refuged herself into the finder’s arms and was starring at him with wide eyes.   
“To think that I have brought you into our house…” Tears were welling up in her eyes. Before Montparnasse could defend himself, he was called for again.  
“Monsieur Montparnasse! Do no lower my esteem of you any further!”  
For s single moment, a single breath, Montparnasse thought whether to ignore her warning and punch Louis-François in the face. He reigned himself in in the last second and trudged out of the room. His footsteps must have been heard through the entire house.  
She led him into the study. Montparnasse knew it was supposed to be her husbands work room, but he had never seen him enter or exit it. On the contrary: it seemed the mother was the only person who used it for correspondence. And while this was something she did frequently, it had always struck Montparnasse as something utterly obsolete.   
She stood behind the desk. It struck Montparnasse as disgraceful that she did not sit down, as if he was some sort of wild animal whom she could not trust and had to be prepared to escape at a moments notice.   
“Monsieur Montparnasse. I am very disappointed in your behaviour.”  
Rage flared up inside his chest. Direct accusation. Not even the opportunity to defend himself, or questioning him whether he admitted to the crime, which was only minimal at best. Had he stolen from the family? Of course, he was no idiot, but to accuse him of such recklessness and stupidity took his breath away. How naïve could this woman be? Montparnasse had spent very little time with her after she had greeted Josephine at the carriage, next to none, in fact but there was no reason for her to trust her daughter’s friends immediately.   
“Madame-“  
“No. I do not want to hear your excuses. I was already weary of you ever since Josephine brought you here and insisted, we let you reside in our home until Annabelle’s gown was finished. Since you were skilled, I decided to be merciful, but I should have known you would succumb to the temptation of unlawful stealing. I should have known you were a slave to your lowly born instincts.”  
Suddenly, everything explaining her behaviour appeared written in black on white in front of Montparnasse’s inner eyes. Of course. It had been futile. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how perfect the product he created, he would never be able to satisfy her expectations. This was a race he had been disqualified from at birth.   
Montparnasse stayed silent. The mother nodded.  
“You have nothing to say in your defence. As expected.”  
7Montparnasse imagined how he would slice her open from navel to chin. He had enough experience from Grimal’s slaughterhouse to pull it off. It would be the most satisfying achievement in his entire life.  
“I expect you to leave this house within the hour. Bid your goodbyes if you must. As you came here without any belonging, you do not need to take anything with you. Do not worry, we will find another tailor to finish the dress.”  
The dress had been the farthest thing on Montparnasse’s mind. He had not worried for it one breath. Should he use the hour to rip it to pieces? No. There was no tailor who could finish the work the same way Montparnasse could. It would become a travesty and Annabelle the laughingstock of her peers if she dared wear it.   
It was what she deserved.   
He stalked out of the study, head held high. Annabelle and Josephine were nowhere to be seen. It was better this way. Montparnasse could not have borne to see their faces one more time. Only Louis-François, with a smug grin on his lips, had deemed it necessary to bid him farewell. ^  
“Well, what a pity. Your work was quite admirable, Montparnasse. But do not worry. I will make sure your loot will be returned to its rightfull owner.”  
As he was saying this, Louis-François took the necklace out of his pocket, held it up to the light and put it back. Montparnasse wanted to strangle him. But not with these many witnesses. Another time, another meeting, this one the bastard would not survive.   
“Goodbye, Louis-François. May your path cross me again.”  
After all, History always repeated itself. First as a tragedy, the second time as a farce. And Montparnasse would make sure to have the last laugh when they met again.  
Montparnasse took his coat from the doorman and stepped outside. The sun had set already. The night’s warm winds wrapped themselves around him like a mother’s embrace. He was back to the same case he had started off one week prior but this time, with a few coins in his pockets and a man he could not wait to meet for the final time. 

Montparnasse spent all his money on alcohol the very same night. He robbed a rich man the next morning to repeat the feat.  
The story with the allegedly stolen necklace had robbed Montparnasse of a great amount of money he deserved, money he had worked hard for, but he did not let it stop him. He was resourceful and if these resources turned out to be other people, even better. He found places and people to sleep, money to earn and manners to spend the money. All in all, he was quite content with the way his life was unfolding. Of course, he still had his eyes fixed on the gold and pomp that were kept from him, but there was no reason to rush. After all, they were not going anywhere. Rich people had always existed and one day, Montparnasse would be one of them. Whether today or tomorrow didn’t matter.   
During this _break_ Montparnasse had allowed himself, there was one person he did not forget. Every man who walked with his head held a little bit too high, a laugh that was a little bit too loud or a swagger that was a little bit too sure of himself, Montparnasse did double check. After all, a lesson needed to be taught, and Louis-François would be the first to learn it. No one crossed Montparnasse unscathed.   
Louis-François had spent hours, _days_ looming over Montparnasse, mocking his work, his appearance. The revenge was only a matter of seconds.   
A young laundry maid found a corpse in the back alley around noon, baking in the sun. The flies and maggots had already begun taking their meal from it. A knife was sticking from his ribs, following a long and open wound, crusted in dry blood. The authorities were immediately alerted, and the body quickly taken away.   
Only the old woman from under the roof noticed he was missing his coat.


	5. We follow Episodes of Aesthetical Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse enjoys his youth in Paris. He also meets people, most of which leave a lasting impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Montparnassee on Tumblr who cosplayed this Montparnasse [[click]](https://montparnassee.tumblr.com/post/616772645094129664/montparnasse-from-helene-of-flowers-a-sinners) ! The atmosphere is simply perfect!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The softness of the sheet was not as luxurious as it could be, but everything else was just to Montparnasse’s liking. The sun was smiling through the windows, reflecting off the dust fluttering in the air.  
A sigh made Montparnasse turn to the person sleeping next to him. Blonde hair, like spun gold, was flowing over the pillow. Enjolras looked peaceful, so different to the passionate man Montparnasse had gotten to know when he was awake. Not that Montparnasse knew him well. They did not talk much and rather enjoyed each other’s company in more physical activities than verbal debate.  
Enjolras’ breath was soft against Montparnasse’s naked skin. Montparnasse nearly wanted to continue lying in bed until he woke up, but the commotion outside his room where the other inhabitants of the house were no doubt starting their day. Sighing, Montparnasse extracted himself from Enjolras’ grip on his chest and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The sheets had been irredeemably stained, and he would need to buy new oil, but it had been entirely worth it. Now the first thing Montparnasse needed was breakfast. He stepped into a pair of pants, threw over a shirt which clung to his frame in a manner none of his own shirts ever did, which gave him the nagging suspicion it was actually Enjolras’. After having put on his shoes but without lacing them up, Montparnasse stepped out of the room, closing the door carefully as not to wake Enjolras in his slumber. A chamber maid nearly ran into him.  
“Pardon me, Monsieur Montparnasse”, she stammered and ran off to the next room with a face as red as apples on a golden autumn day. She was cute, but a bit young for Montparnasse’s taste. He would let others corrupt her to the great pleasures of life.  
When Montparnasse came back, carrying a big tray filled with bread, tea, jam and fruits, Enjolras was already awake and lounging in a chair near the window, reading in the sunlight. Montparnasse had to admit he was slightly disappointed. He had hoped to wake Enjolras up so that they could eat in bed. But the sight that offered itself to him was nearly as good as this.  
Enjolras was wearing Montparnasse’s shirt, which hung slightly too loosely off his shoulders and let a peak of collarbone be seen. His long legs, pale as milk, were stretched and the blonde hair, nearly invisible under any other conditions, was shining gold in the light. Truly a masterpiece for the eyes, especially Montparnasse, who was the only one present in the room to appreciate it. He knew that Enjolras was not one to be aware of his own beauty and effect on other, too concentrated on the serious things in life. Every day, he was reading the newspapers, following closely the politics and evolutions of Louis-Phillipe the 1st. If it hadn’t been for Enjolras, rambling on about him at every single occasion, Montparnasse would probably not have known the name of the man currently sitting on the throne. Alas, here he was, stuck with the next Robespierre, condemned to listen to his ideas and speeches about the future of the nation. It was pitiful, really. Everyone could live well if they did not fear to use their fingers for the necessary amount of dirty work. Montparnasse was the living proof.  
“So, what is happening in our glorious land?”, he asked, setting the tray on the bed and pulling off his shoes to sit down. Enjolras was frowning.  
“Broglie has been named minister.”  
Montparnasse hummed and nodded and snapped of a grape from the cluster to eat it.  
“Interesting.” Truthfully, Montparnasse could not care less. The games the rich called politics to distract themselves were of no matter to him. When he joined their ranks, he would do so in a fashion that would not bother him with meaningless squabble over land and titles. If a man was wortless, a string of letters in front of his name could not change that.  
A sharp snap in the air. Enjolras had slammed his book shut and was staring at Montparnasse across the room. Oh, the things these blazing eyes could do to him.  
“How can you be so disinterested in the people around you?”, Enjolras asked and sat up straight. This was not the first time he had questioned Montparnasse in his motivations. But Enjolras had not received an answer then and he would not succeed now.  
“I am very interested in the people around me. _You_ for instance. Come to bed, Ange, so we can enjoy this food I’ve brought with nothing but the muscle of my body and the sweat of my brow.”  
Only quick reflexes allowed Montparnasse to dodge the book that was thrown at him.  
“Don’t you dare call me that.”  
It seemed Montparnasse had struck a nerve. He had called Enjolras many things, and every pet name had at most earned him an exasperated sigh, if any reaction at all. This revulsion was something entirely new. He could not let this moment go like that. Further research was necessary. Enjolras reaction — his _passion_ — was something he needed to replicate.  
“And what if I defy your order, _Ange_?”  
In a few strides, Montparnasse was standing in front of the chair and lowered himself to straddle Enjolras naked thighs.  
The slap burned sharply on Montparnasse’s right cheek. He grinned in response and lifted the cluster of grapes to his mouth to rip off a berry with his bare teeth. He knew the dark juice would stain his lips in the most enticing fashion.  
“ _You_ do not get to call me that.”  
There was more to it. A pang of jealousy set Montparnasse’s heart ablaze, but he quickly drowned it in self-interest.  
“Oh, so this is something personal. Tell me, what young lad is beautiful enough to capture your soul, Adonis?”  
This was serious. If Montparnasse allowed himself the fun of teasing Enjolras any further with the angelic nickname, he would simply storm off and not be seen again for a few weeks. It had happened before. Enjolras temperament and ire was not something to be toyed with and Montparnasse could not allow him to run away with one of his most expensive shirts. It had cost him an entire night to stalk its owner down and purchase ownership of the garment for the price of his life.  
“You mean more beautiful than you?”, Enjolras scoffed. Montparnasse crossed his writs behind Enjolras’ neck and pulled his head back by a strand of hair in retaliation.  
“He has to be, otherwise I would have managed to make you stay of your own volition a long time ago.”  
Although he had internalised the knowledge that he was beautiful ever since the maid had told him, it was a soothing balm for his soul whenever someone like Enjolras confirmed it once more. After all, beauty spoke to itself, so if the sun itself approved of Montparnasse’s physique it might shine some light and warmth on his existence everyone else would otherwise call horrible.  
“Well, he is very self-aware of his flaws, so that already makes him better than you in every aspect, Raphaël.”  
That voice saying his name did things to Montparnasse he dared not dream of. He would even let the comment about his flaws slide just to hear it again.  
“Say it again.”  
“He is better than you in every way. More attentive, funnier, kinder, softer-“  
“More beautiful?”  
Montparnasse grinned. Enjolras abruptly pushed him away.  
“Beauty isn’t everything, Montparnasse.”  
This coldness. Montparnasse despised it. It was a cruel reminder that Enjolras was not his to keep and these few blissful moments of warmth could be just as quickly taken away.  
“It is the only thing worthwhile in this world.”  
Enjolras’ gaze was painful- no, worse. It was pitiful.  
“Is that truly all you live for, Montparnasse? All you aspire to?”  
His voice and words hurt only more. Montparnasse jumped from his lap and took a few strides back, only far enough that he could be sure not to strangle Enjolras in rage.  
“Yes. Yes, it is. Beauty is the only thing that has kept me alive and it is the only thing that will keep my living. Do not act all mighty in front of me, Enjolras, as if you haven’t spent your entire surrounded by the most beautiful things this earth has to offer. You do not know what ugliness is, you do not know what ugly looks like. You say I do not know my flaws, but at least I do not pretend to know everything better than everyone else, because this world can only touch you in theory, but not in practice. You can have everything you want, Enjolras, so you do not know what it feels like to cling to the only thing you own.”  
He grabbed the first things he could find and stormed out of the room. He could always come back later and retrieve everything else, when Enjolras was gone. That bastard hopefully enjoyed the breakfast for two Montparnasse had left him.  
Enjolras called after him, but Montparnasse did not look back.

*** 

Louisette was not only beautiful and alluring, but intelligent as well. Too intelligent for her own good, sometimes. Montparnasse had crashed into her changing room, already three drinks into the night, and she had done nothing but stuff him into the next best chair and told him to be quiet while she got ready for work. The other girls in the dressing room, all in various states of undress, had long stopped paying any attention to Montparnasse. He was a regular occurrence in their lives, as if he was a bouquet send from an admirer.  
“So, what has you mopping all around like a floor cloth?”, Louisette asked while applying some coal to her eyeline.  
Montparnasse did not answer.  
“Is it your little love bird? Is he causing you problems? Montparnasse, you know I love hearing about your trouble in paradise, but you can only come to me if you are actually ready to talk about it. Here, take mine, Jeanne.” She handed the girl next to her her rouge powder brush.  
“Who else would it be?” After all, no one else stayed long enough for Louisette to have any memory of them, let alone a nickname and an idea of what their actual relationship with Montparnasse was like. Maybe this story with Enjolras had gone on for too long. But he was simply splendid to have around. Montparnasse was not sure he could bear being withdrawn from him. Already, he began to crave his presence like a good merlot on his tongue.  
“Was it his fault this time? Brush. The one with the dark handle.” Without a comment, Montparnasse handed Louisette the tool she asked for. It was no inconvenience, after all, the hairbrush was laying only one table over.  
It had to be said, that Louisette hat exceptionally beautiful hair. Of a deep auburn tone, it cascaded over her shoulders in loose curls Montparnasse had wrapped around his fingers many times. It was hair fit for a painting and Louisette was doing humanity a great service by displaying it on the stage every night for the public to see while she danced.  
“We had a- let’s call it a difference in opinions,” Montparnasse admitted and snatched the brush out of Louisette’s hand when she tried to reach the back of her head and hopelessly failed. He pulled a stool in and continued her interrupted task of brushing her hair until it shone like glazed wood.  
“Enjolras has a new flame.” When she heard this, Louisette tried to turn around. Perhaps with more force than would have been necessary, Montparnasse forced her to look to the front once again. She caught his eyes in the mirror and lifted an eyebrow.  
“We both know we were never anything more than acquaintances with a mutually beneficial and appreciated physical relationship. As I was saying, he has a flame who is not better looking than I am.”  
“No one could be better looking than you are, Montparnasse. You would have killed them before this outrageous accusation could have reached anyone’s ears.”  
Montparnasse swatted her on the shoulder with the brush. The hair was piling up between the bristles. He would have to empty it after the next few strokes.  
“Not so loud. Anyway. According to _Monsieur_ Enjolras, and I quote: ‘ _Beauty isn’t everything_.’ Of course, I know better than him and he will think of me when his skin will be covered in wrinkles and no one deigns to listen to his ideas and speeches since there will not be anything interesting to look at anymore. I-“  
Montparnasse stopped to pluck the hair out of the brush.  
“I might have gotten slightly overboard with my rousing defence of the importance of beauty. However, it needs to be recorded that Enjolras was the only one at fault here for not listening to reason.”  
A glint of silver in the skein of hair caught Montparnasse’s attention. Slowly, he pulled a single hair. It wasn’t white yet, of course not, but it was undeniably grey. How old was Louisette? In the long time since Montparnasse had met her for the first time, she had not aged a day.  
Now time had finally caught up to her.  
Montparnasse could see her future flash before him. This was only the beginning. Louisette’s hair would dull, as would her skin, and the lights of the stage would shift to another dancer, younger and more beautiful than her. She would have to find a husband, likely a brute who could not appreciate the fine art of her craft and demanded she spent her days labouring for his own laziness. She would wither away, pained from work and without a single ounce of recognition, no evidence of her days of glory left to see until she crumbled and would be carried to a grave shared with people who had lived their entire existences in misery.  
It was a tragedy waiting in her shadow.  
“Well, it is already a very impressive development for you to acknowledge you had anything to do with the escalation of the situation.”  
Louisette’s snappish comment pulled Montparnasse out of his thoughts. Should he tell her about the grey hair?  
The door opened and the manager of the show stuck his head in.  
“Girls, you’re on in 10 minutes.”  
He left just as quickly as he had arrived, deliberately ignoring Montparnasse, even though he had clearly been in his line of sight.  
“Hurry up, Montparnasse! I still need to pin my hair and get into my dress!” Frantically, Louisette slapped his wrist to get him to continue her hair maintenance. He let the ball of hair fall onto the floor. It seemed life had a way of taking the decision right out of his hand. Dutifully, he continued to brush the rest of her hair, pinned it up and helped her into the dress.  
“We will talk about your heartache later, all right?”  
Montparnasse was just about to interject that he did not have _heartache_ but did not voice the thought.  
“I don’t think I’ll stay around to watch the show.”  
Louisette looked up to him, frowning. Then she patted him on the cheek.  
“Well, we’ll catch up another time. Don’t do anything you’ll come to regret, do you hear me?”  
Montparnasse hummed in acknowledgement. The sun had already set outside, and the air was cold and crisp. Enjolras was waiting for him in the room he had left him in.  
“Not wooing my better replacement?”, Montparnasse asked in the same breath he pushed Enjolras up against the wall.  
“It seems like my looks are not enough to make up for my ideological shortcomings,” Enjolras whispered and kissed Montparnasse harshly.  
It was a night filled with bites and screams. At least Montparnasse’s beauty was still good enough for a few more hours in Enjolras’ company.

*** 

Louisette and Montparnasse did not talk about Enjolras after the show. They never talked about the quarrel again. The next time Montparasse managed to drop by Louisette’s dressing room, was only weeks later. The corridor was crowded, both guests and employees were cooing at each other’s throats and Montparnasse had trouble making his way through the masses.  
The door to the dressing room barely missed crushing his nose as it swung open with brutal and unexpected force. A pair had been enraptured in the other’s eyes and were drastically pushed apart. A man of tall stature and with broad shoulders pushed his way through the crowd. His gaze crossed path with Montparnasse’s before falling to the flower bouquet he was holding in his arms. He had stolen them from a magnificent garden only half an hour earlier.  
“Good luck. Enjoy her while she’s still worth it.”  
Montparnasse decided the man was an asshole and not worth wasting another second of his thoughts over.  
Louisette was the only one in the dressing room. When Montparnasse entered, she was hurriedly hiding a handkerchief behind her back. It was obvious that his visit had taken her by surprise.  
“Good Evening,” he greeted and kissed her once on each cheek. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying not too long ago. Maybe Montparnasse should hunt that man down and make him think twice whether _enjoying_ Louisette was truly worth it.  
“Good evening.” Louisette sniffled and her voice was hoarse. “Did you enjoy my show?”, she asked and smiled. It was nothing but an illusion, like an overdramatic stage act. It would have needed a lot more polishing to fool Montparnasse.  
“Of course. Thank you for entertaining me tonight.”  
He bowed and presented her the flowers. There was no paper, only simple string to hold them together. Louisette clutched them closely to her chest.  
“Oh, Montparnasse, they are beautiful! How much did they cost you? A whole 10 minutes?”  
Montparnasse grinned and let himself fall into one of the cushioned seats. “Something like that. Who was that bloke? If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he could have run down the door by his sheer anger alone.”  
“He- Oh, he was no one. Do not pay any mind to him. He is a nobody. No one worth mulling over.”  
Louisette grabbed a vase with slightly withered flowers from her table, emptied its entire content out of the window into the street and filled it with fresh water from a carafe. Montparnasse had to admit that his bouquet looked much better than its predecessor, not that he hadn’t expected it.  
“Montparnasse?”  
“Hm?”  
“How old do you think I am?”  
The question took him off-guard. Where was this coming from? They had never talked about mundane things like aging and Montparnasse had to admit that he had no inkling of what the correct answer could be. _If_ there even was a correct answer.  
He had known Louisette for a few years and even back then, she had always looked ageless, immortal even. Montparnasse knew, of course, that this was impossible and his findings in Louisette’s hair had only been one of many pieces of evidence that she was as human as the rest of them.  
“I don’t know, 25?”, he guessed. Louisette’s reaction did not give him any clues as to how close the answer was to the truth. She snorted — which was surprisingly _unladylike_ of her — and crumbled onto her chair.  
“I’m 37, Montparnasse.”  
If he had been swallowing a drink, he would have spit it out in her face.  
“What? How!”  
“You heard me correctly, Montparnasse. Please don’t tell me you’re genuinely surprised. We have known each other for years and even I cannot hide my wrinkles anymore.”  
Delicately, she touched her eyes with her ring finger, as if the lines she must have discovered there were nothing but badly smudged face paint.  
“I have never thought about your age.”  
“Well, now you don’t have to anymore. Although I will admit that it surprises me. I would have expected you to be the first to wonder about it.”  
“It never came up.”  
“Mmmh. If only life could always be that way.” Her eyes became glassy. Again, she patted her eye with a single finger.  
“The man who just left, was- Did he-?” Montparnasse left the unasked question hang in the air like a spider web they could not escape from. Louisette nodded. Tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks. It was only a few strides for Montparnasse to stand in front of her and take her into his arms. It was strange to touch her like this, without second thought and without desire. Louisette pulled him tighter, clutching at his jacket and drawing him in. She had phenomenal force for someone of her stature. Montparnasse was not sure he would have been able to free himself without hurting her. Delicately, he twisted the handkerchief she was still holding out of her hand.  
“Shh, don’t cry. He is not worth tarnishing your beautiful eyes.”  
“But he is right, Montparnasse. We both know he is. I’m well past my prime already, I will grow old and haggard and no one will come visit me with beautiful gifts anymore. Where am I supposed to get money from if I cannot sell the jewellery anymore? I can barely dance, my legs hurt after every kick, the others are already sticking out their claws to get my place-“ She broke off into heart wrenching sobs. Awkwardly, Montparnasse patted her on the back and tried to catch a few tears from falling with the handkerchief.  
It was stained red.  
It seemed Montparnasse had granted her a too ample process of decay in his imagination. He had seen fate’s like hers countless times. Louisette was the first one that hit him in the heart as if he had just been shot.  
“Don’t cry. They are queueing in the corridor and cannot wait to meet the queen of the ballroom. He was one bastard without taste, and not even rich enough to begin with.” Montparnasse knew he was lying. The asshole had been very rich, or the pants Montparnasse would have charged a fortune for had been stolen. “You’ll find someone much better than him. Probably tomorrow already, if not tonight.”  
“It’s not _fair_ , Montparnasse. It’s not fair that my youth was the only thing keeping me alive.” Her sobs grew heavier. Montparnasse could feel the wetness of her despair staining through his clothes.  
The door creaked and a young girl stepped in. Montparnasse waved her away. Now was not the time for strangers stepping in. He had more important business to deal with.  
No one dared disturbing them anymore until Louisette’s tears had dried. Montparnasse offered to buy her a glass of wine and they could pick out which man had the highest chances of becoming her new suitor.  
All in all, it could have been a worse night.  
When Montparnasse came back to his room, a new, freshly plucked flower bouquet in his hands, the room was empty. The wardrobe was half empty, the bed was made, no books were stacked on the desk, threatening to topple over at every moment.  
Everything looked utterly lifeless.  
Enjolras was gone.  
The bouquet landed on the street below. Maybe it would brighten someone else’s day. Montparnasse had no use for it anymore.

*** 

The hunger was pulling at every cell of Montparnasse’s body. The food served on the terrasses was taunting him, even if it was only olives and nuts served as an Apéro. He needed to find something to eat, and fast. Or at least money to buy food.  
The streets of Paris were well filled. Potential victims for pickpocketing were passing by in front of Montparnasse’s nose in the tact of dozens per minute. He continued to stand still, leaning against the wall, simply observing, trying to resist the natural cravings of his body.  
He was thinking of Louisette and the handkerchief. She had not danced yesterday when he had gone to the theatre and according to one of the other girls, she had not come in for work at all. The manager had been fuming the entire night while everyone else was fighting over who got to take over Louisette’s position. Montparnasse had left before she was able to tell him the name of the lucky winner for the spotlight.  
Where was Louisette now? He had no method of contacting her. Montparnasse saw the bloody handkerchief in front of his inner eye. Had she found someone to help her?  
A familiar pair of pants passed right in front of Montparnasse. He had seen them only a few days ago, in a far too familiar theatre corridor. Without hesitation, Montparnasse followed Louisette’s old paramour. Only a few streets further, he disappeared into a house. The delicate decorations on the outside walls of the building and the astonishing amount of them told Montparnasse that his first impression of the man based on his pants had been correct. He came from money, and a lot of it on top. No wonder Louisette had been so distraught when he had let her drop as if she was nothing more than a hot potato he had grown tired of. She probably had planned on building her entire future and retirement on the man’s fortune.  
It was clear now who would pay for Montparnasse’s meal for the next week, if not month. If the man had been so comfortable throwing away Louisette’s life for his own enjoyment, surely, he would have no objection to giving his life to Montparnasse. He had so much better use for it after all. Montparnasse palmed the knife in his pocket. It had done him a many great services in the past, and it would assure this survival this night as well. As soon as the man stepped outside again, his life would be done for.  
Waiting in the shadows of the little side street, Montparnasse lied waiting.  
His limbs grew heavy. How long was the man going to stay in this house. It was too early to stay in. Maybe Montparnasse would have to break in, which was something he rather liked to avoid. Break-ins combined with homicide always gave the impression of personal relations playing a part in the motive, rather than a simple and clear-cut case of robbery murder as this would be the case.  
A door slammed. Montparnasse looked up, knife ready. His victim was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Louisette rushed out of the house. She was coughing, holding her hand in front of her face to hide her mouth. Her entire appearance was in disarray. Her hair was coming loose from its pins, her dress was ripped and hung from her body in a manner anyone else would have described as scandalous.  
What had she been doing in the man’s house that could have left her in this state?  
Montparnasse did not have to reveal himself. Louisette ran into the alley he was standing in and nearly crashed into him with full force. Montparnasse barely managed to keep her from impaling herself on his knife.  
“Montparnasse!”, she exclaimed.  
“Louisette!”  
“What are you doing here?”, she asked, glanced at his knife and realised that the answer to that question was obsolete. “I- He- Please don’t tell me you want to kill him for my sake! He has nothing to do with this!”  
“Of course not, Louisette. I’m hungry and I need money.” As he was seeing her, however, Montparnasse grew to like the idea that killing the man for Louisette’s sake. It would be a good deed to accomplish. After all, the opportunity to act virtuously was not encountered often in his line of business.  
Someone screamed Louisette’s name. She looked back at the house. Her jaw trembled and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Montparnasse was seeing her cry far too often for his liking. He would have to put an end to it.  
“Please, Montparnasse, you must not hurt him!” Louisette clutched at his lapels. Another coughing fit came over her and she gripped at Montparnasse’s clothes to stay upright. When she looked up, her teeth and chin and throat were stained red.  
“Louisette! Come back here! No one will pity you in this state! I am the only one who sees your worth. Or do you want to die alone, as an ugly hag?”, someone screamed from the house. It was the same voice that had called for Louisette.  
“No- no, please, don’t.” Louisette was sobbing, snot was drooling out her nose and her words were barely understandable. Montparnasse looked up. Louisette’s lover was standing on the balcony. He was wearing nothing but a simple chemise and his underpants. As soon as his eyes met Montparnasse’s, he turned around and stormed back into the house.  
“Louisette-“  
“I don’t want to turn ugly. To be forgotten. You’ll make me beautiful, won’t you, Montparnasse? Promise me? Promise me they will say I was beautiful?” Louisette was full on babbling at this point. She was gripping Montparnasse’s wrists. He wanted to wrestle away, stop her from pointing the knife at herself.  
“Promise me, Raphaël?”  
“Yes, but-“  
Before Montparnasse could finish his phrase, Louisette had plunged the knife into her chest. Hot blood was pouring over his hands, soaked up by his sleeves. Montparnasse had spent a lifetime in contact with blood and death. Never had it felt as revulsing as in this moment. It was as if he was catching the weight of the entire world as he was slowly lowering her body onto the ground.  
Montparnasse had no idea how to stop a bleeding. All he had ever learned was to cause it. All he knew was how to bring death as swiftly as possible.  
“-parnasse, it hurts.” Louisette’s voice was nothing but a faint breath. Had Montparnasse not leaned over her head, he would have missed it.  
There was no way of saving Louisette anymore.  
Montparnasse corrected his grip on the knife’s handle. There was one thing he could still do for her.  
“Remember. You promised.” Louisette’s smile was weak. It looked like hell was grinning at him, mouth blood, teeth fletching.  
Montparnasse put a hand over her mouth and pulled the knife from her body, He could feel her screaming under his fingers. It would be over soon.  
Carefully, he lifted Louisette’s head into his lap, turning her to the side.  
“Shhh. Be strong. Only a bit longer.”  
Louisette would not see the knife coming. Montparnasse had never looked back on his time with Grimal with anything but disgust. However, there were a few skills he had picked up in the time he was now grateful to have.  
“Don’t worry. I will keep my promise.”  
It was harder to break into the skull from the back of the neck than Montparnasse remembered. In a few seconds, it was over.  
He closed her eyes gently.  
Montparnasse had promised Louisette to make her be remembered as beautiful. He had no intention of fulfilling her other plea.  
That man was still in the house. Thankfully, the balcony was easy to reach by climbing. Only a few candles were lit, plunging the room Montparnasse first entered in a dim light, gloomy and mysterious. Montparnasse felt it a very fitting atmosphere for the endeavour he was about to undertake.  
His victim was nowhere to be seen.  
Knife ready, blood slowly dripping from the blade onto the carpet which absorbed any treacherous sound, Montparnasse crept to the stair at the very end of the room. Brighter light was shining from the downstairs floor. Maybe he would find the man there.  
A step creaked under the weight of his steps. Montparnasse did not stop. It was now too late to keep him from action, no matter the cost.  
The man was standing with his right leg in his trousers when Montparnasse found him. Truly a ridiculous picture for someone facing his death. It was quite fitting.  
Like he had seen many cats do, Montparnasse tipped over a vase that was standing on a table to his right. Whoever had put it there was practically begging for it to be destroyed. A satisfactory crash when the porcelain shattered on the floor made the man turn around.  
“You!”, he exclaimed and let his trousers drop. Now he looked even more ridiculous than before.  
“Me,” said Montparnasse and tipped over a stack of books. The sound of their landing was dull, rather than sharp. He had preferred the vase. It had been more dramatic.  
“Where is that woman? Where is Louisette? What have you done to her?”  
“She’s dead.”  
The bloody blade of the knife glistened in the candlelight. The man took a few steps back, tripped on the trousers he was still wearing around one ankle and fell flat on his bottom.  
“You killed her? You monster!”  
“Mmmh.”  
Montparnasse took a few steps forward, as if this chase was a morbid dance. There was a certain beauty to it. A certain thrill, he had to admit.  
He turned the knife in the light and inspected it with the greatest interest. It would take a bit of force to fully bury it in the other’s body the way he intended to. Bleeding out, without a chance of saving.  
The man finally seemed to realize what situation he was in.  
“Please don’t kill me! You can have anything you want! Clothes, food, _Money_!”  
Montparnasse took one step further. The man lifted his hands to his face, hiding, unable to look him in the eye.  
“Please, have mercy!”, he pleaded.  
Montparnasse grabbed the man by his wrists, lifted them above his head, waited a few seconds until he was still, slowly opening his eyes to see.  
“No,” Montparnasse said and plunged the knife deep between his ribs, directly into his heart.  
The man’s scream quickly turned into a pitiful rattle.  
“Do you know what Louisette’s last words about you were?”, Montparnasse asked. He pulled the knife from the flesh and slowly unwrapped the man’s cramped fingers, until he could lie the wooden handle into his hand.  
“She was begging me not to hurt you.”  
It took more force than expected to close the man’s fingers around the knife.  
“Too bad she was not alive long enough to actually convince me of that plea.”  
With a sigh, Montparnasse stood up from his crouching position on the floor.  
“Look at the bright side. You’ll be able to beg her forgiveness in the afterlife, if such a thing exists. That must be worth something, no? After all, she died beautiful. There must be something of interest for you in that.”  
The man could not answer. Only his coarse breathing left his throat.  
Montparnasse tipped over a second vase. It burst into thousand pieces with a satisfactory sharp crash.  
Now it was time for the actual reason why Montparnasse had come here. Or at least the important one, depending how one looked at it.  
The wardrobe was a massive piece of furniture, build out of dark wood. It reached to the top of the ceiling and even with the candelabra Montparnasse had brought over, it was difficult to see. The doors creaked when he opened them. It was a disappointment. White shirts, some with ruffles, extravagant vests and jackets and trousers. Nothing that could be of use.  
On the right side of the wardrobe was a chest. It was high and reached up to Montparnasse’s hips. This was no small feat, considering his heights and the boots with heels he was currently wearing. The top was heavy. Montparnasse nearly broke into a sweat opening it. Thankfully, he had found exactly what he was looking for.  
The chest was filled to the brim with beautiful dresses. Even to Montparnasse’s skilled eye, the were clearly of superior quality. They must have cost a fortune to acquire.  
Montparnasse picked a periwinkle silk dress. The blood would clearly stand out. The sooner someone found Louisette’s body, the better. The further the process of decay had advanced, the more it would distract from Montparnasse’s goal.  
He hung the dress on a hanger he borrowed from the wardrobe and went on to search for the vanity.  
Powder, lipstick, rouge, everything went into a large canvas bag he had found at the bottom of the wardrobe. For now, he was done. There was nothing in the house of interest to him anymore.  
Montparnasse excited the house the very same way he had entered it. Over the balcony, along the outer walls that were shrouded in shadow and wines.  
It took less time than expected to dress Louisette in her new clothes. Under any other circumstances, Montparnasse would have been proud of himself. She looked beautiful, peaceful even, had it not been for the gaping wound in her side and the blood pouring out of the back of her skull. Whoever found her would lament a beautiful life lost to early, the potential of a woman who had so much to live for. Even if they did not know Louisette well, they would grieve for her.  
Montparnasse disappeared into the shadows, taking the canvas bag and the shredded dress Louisette had been originally wearing with him. Both items found their ways into the Seine.  
The next morning, a young paper boy would be doing his daily rounds along the quays and spy a floating dress hopping along the waves. By the time they had retrieved the garment from the waters, a small crowd had assembled. The very same evening, one of the witnesses was convinced they saw a beautiful woman, wearing this very same dress, standing on the railing of the Pont Neuf. She had thrown herself into the floods moments later.  
In less than a week, all of Paris had heard about the mysterious Ghost of the Pont Neuf. Montparnasse was not one of them.  
He woke up the next morning in the room he had been sharing with Enjolras less than a week prior. Dried blood was clinging the once white sheets to his skin and his throat was dry as parchment. When he left the bed, an empty bottle of wine rolled over the floor. He paid no attention to it.  
The water was cold when he washed off the blood. Everything he had done the day prior felt like a dream. If he didn’t know better, he would drop by the theatre to visit Louisette after her matinee performance. But that would be impossible from now on.  
A loud banging on the door pulled Montparnasse back into reality.  
Montparnasse stopped midmotion, razor in hand. His left cheek was still completely covered in fresh shaving cream. He stayed quiet.  
“Police, open up!”  
In one swift motion, Montparnasse had grabbed the coat that he had thrown over the back of a chair and opened the window. The very same moment he climbed out and swung himself onto the roof, the door broke down and a horde of policemen stormed the room. All they saw was the bed stained red and the towel in the washing room which was coloured a light pink due to the diluted blood.  
Montparnasse was breathing heavily as he leaned against the rooftiles, warmed by the midday sun. He had not expected them to find him so quickly. He should probably have found another place to sleep for the night than the room he had practically lived in for the past 6 months.  
“There he is! That’s the man who stole my dress!”, a shrill, feminine voice screamed from the street below. Montparnasse peeked over the edge of the roof. He could not discern the woman clearly due to her abnormally large hat, and yet he was sure he had no idea what she was talking about. Were the police not trying to arrest him because of Louisette and the man in the house from the evening prior?  
“He killed my fiancé and stole my most expensive dress! He completely ruined it with all that blood!”  
Had he not been in a rather precarious position, Montparnasse would have very much liked to slit the woman’s throat open for her ridiculous prioritising of events. But it pleased him to know that a dress was more important than the woman’s fiancé.  
“He’s on the roof, _commissaire_! He climbed out of the window.”  
Half a head looked over the edge of the roof. It looked utterly ridiculous, with bushy eyebrows making it seem as if there was no forehead under the policeman’s hat. Montparnasse had no time to laugh however, as his survival was more important. Scantily dressed and with his razor still in hand, he set off to his escape over the roofs of Paris.  
The screams behind him did not wane as Montparnasse was hurrying over Paris. His breath quickly grew ragged and his sides were hurting as if he was being punched by a hundred needles. He threw a glance downwards. The police were still chasing him. Two of them were on horseback. Montparnasse had not the slightest idea where they got the animals from or why they were even chasing him with their equestrian division, but he had no time to ponder about that now. The most important thing was survival, and the chances of achieving it grew slimmer and slimmer.  
Montparnasse should not have looked down. Had he continued to look straight ahead, or at least down on the roof where he was putting his feet, he would have noticed the protruding tile which caught his foot and sent him flying on his stomach. There was nothing Montparnasse could hold onto to catch himself, to keep himself from rolling off the rather steep angle of the roof and falling off its edge.  
He was a lucky man, however, and a balcony caught his fall before he could break his back. Once more, fate was providing Montparnasse with a great amount of pain rather than a terminate amount of Death.  
It remains a mystery how the police did not take notice of this mishap, but they continued on, screaming to catch this criminal, ignoring that he was paralysed by the pain only a few meters above them, unable to move, until someone violently yanked the balcony door open.  
A total stranger looked with great surprise at a half-naked Montparnasse, writhing in agony on his balcony while a troop of policeman were scarring pedestrians down on the street.  
The stranger did not seem off-put by Montparnasse’s state of undress. Nonetheless, the look of absolute surprise on his face did not vanish.  
“Are you okay?”, he asked and crouched down, as not to tower over Montparnasse anymore.  
“Ngh.”  
“Wait, I will help you.”  
The stranger’s hands were warm and strong between Montparnasse’s shoulder blades. He could feel calluses on the fingertips. As if he weighed nothing, the stranger lifted Montparnasse into the air and carried him off the balcony, into a bedroom.  
If he was being honest with himself, Montparnasse had not expected seeing Enjolras again after finding their room deserted. _Especially_ not in what looked like the bedroom of a stranger — at least a stranger to Montparnasse — reading a book and making notes with a quill. There was a smudge of paint on his cheek. Montparnasse had never seen Enjolras with anything but perfect skin, untouched by the outside world.  
“Montparnasse?”  
The stranger slowly lowered Montparnasse to the ground until he could stand again. Or at least pretend he wasn’t moments away from falling over from the pain that was still scurrying along every muscle in his back.  
“Enjolras, what-?”  
Montparnasse looked back at the stranger that had carried him inside. He had to admit, he truly wasn’t as good looking as Montparnasse himself. Far from it, really. Calling him easy on the eye would be a massive overstatement.  
This was the man Enjolras had left him for?  
Montparnasse would have felt insulted if Enjolras didn’t looks so good, so radiant, so… happy.  
“What are you doing here, Montparnasse? Did you make that sound as if the sky was falling over our heads? How did you get on Grantaire’s balcony?”  
Montparnasse had barely time to think that this was a fitting name for the stranger who had apparently won over Enjolras’ heart before Enjolras stood up and made him lose every word that he had ever known. Why couldn’t he speak to Enjolras anymore? It had been so easy before!  
“I- Well- You know- It’s a long story, Enjolras.”  
“I have time.”  
“The police are looking for me.”  
“You are safe here.”  
“I killed someone.”  
Montparnasse had expected this confession to put an end to it all. He had confessed to many crimes in his time at Enjolras’ side, but murder had always stayed his dirty little secret. He told him that he _stole_ his clothes which was not a lie, but still a far cry from the truth.  
“I know.” Enjolras spoke these words as if he were asking for his way.  
Enjolras knew. _Enjolras had known the entire time._  
Montparnasse could not breathe.  
The floor was hard on his bottom as he crumbled, unable to keep himself standing anymore.  
“Montparnasse, what happened? Why are you here? How did you find me?”  
“I did not find you. Pure coincidence.” Montparnasse could not speak anymore, every word he breathed felt as if he were dying.  
“I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what happened, Montparnasse!”  
Oh, Enjolras. Sweet, naïve, Enjolras. He knew all this about Montparnasse, knew what he had done, and yet he still wanted to help him.  
Montparnasse did not need help. He needed to get away. He shook his head, refusing to give an answer.  
Enjolras wouldn’t understand. He had found a happy life. If would be selfish of Montparnasse to ruin it for his own safety.  
“Fine. Don’t tell me anything.”  
Slowly, air was finding its way back into Montparnasse’s lungs. Slowly, he was living again.  
Grantaire and Enjolras were staring at him. He had nothing to say.  
The street outside was relatively quiet again. Soon, Montparnasse would get out of their hair and leave Enjolras to the life he deserved.  
They waited until night had fallen. The air was tense and awkward, no one knew what to say, least of all Montparnasse. He did not say goodbye. A curt nod was all he could give to Enjolras as he left the apartment and his old life behind him.  
Paris had served its purpose. It was time for Montparnasse to find another home. 


	6. The Light at the End of the Tunnel is of flaming copper hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse had never left Paris. Now that he has lost the only place he had ever been able to call home, his life drastically changes. A family he meets in the middle of the night and a sword held to his throat after a break-in only further the new situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People, we're finally getting to Jehan as an actual character in this story and I am embracing the fandom wide headcanon that they have auburn/red hair. I hope you enjoy the chapter, it is 12 thousand words long so I hope you have some free time to read it!  
> Also, Éponine is a trans man in this story and his pronouns are he/him. There will be a scene in the NEXT chapter where he gets misgendered, but you will be able to skip it (and I will write a summary of that scene in the author notes).

The city had been all Montparnasse had ever known. Whether for good or for bad, the stench, the claustrophobia brought upon by small houses encapsulating even smaller streets, people pressing close and chest to chest as their discovered the pavement of their home had been known, it had been _safe_.   
Montparnasse was utterly lost in the vast wilderness of the countryside. He had to flee the city; he knew that. What he hadn’t realized when he left Grantaire’s apartment was how utterly petrifying the lack of civilization was — or whatever one wanted to call the amass of human bodies within the walls of the French capital.   
Montparnasse was sure he would die out here should he not find other humans soon.   
He had no skill that could be of use out here. He knew how to kill an animal efficiently and strip it of its carcass; if that animal was docile and there was no risk of getting maimed in the process. Montparnasse was not confident he would find a farmer to take him in until he had sorted his thoughts and established a new plan on how to continue.   
Now, all he could do was march on, hoping he was not alone between all this grass, these bushes, these trees, the birds he could hear flying above him in the great sky, surely waiting for him to drop to the ground from exhaustion so they could skin him alive and feast on his delicious young flesh.   
The moon was shining on him in all its cold glory. Montparnasse was shaking from the chill of the night. The jacket and shoes Grantaire had given him — it was a miracle that he was approximately of the same built as Montparnasse — did little to keep off the horrid climate conditions of an autumn night in the countryside. He wrapped the jacket tighter around his torso. It did little to help. The cold seeped through his skin and muscles right to his bones. Every step he took was agonizing, as if he were wating through the icy waters of the arctic. At least that’s what Montparnasse imagines these waters must feel like.   
It felt as if he had been walking for hours when he crumbled to the ground at the foot of a great oak tree. Something was howling in the distance. Montparnasse was hoping he would not get to find out what animal it was.   
The faint lights of Paris where glittering in what seemed to be kilometres away. Montparnasse had hoped he would be out of the city’s sight by now. His plan of escape had much more leaks than he had originally anticipated.   
It made him wonder whether he had been lucky during his entire criminal career or if the city forces were simply to incompetent to catch him until some rich woman kicked their asses into a higher work gear.   
Something touched Montparnasse’s outstretched legs. A faint cry echoed through the night. Montparnasse had to force himself not to scream as well.   
“Who’s there?”, asked a small voice. In the moonlight, Montparnasse could slowly begin to discern a-  
Child?  
It must be a child, or someone who did not grow to the average size of an adult, but the voice he had just heard strongly indicated the former.   
What was a child doing in the middle of the countryside, far from any city or village in the middle of the night _alone_?  
“Hello?”, the voice asked again. Montparnasse forced himself to stay silent. He would not reveal himself to a stranger. Except for the razor blade in his pocket, he had nothing to defend himself. There was also no way for him to retrieve it without raising suspicion. The night might be dark and full of terrors for Montparnasse, but this did not mean he was invisible for this creature standing in front of him and obviously dead set on discovering more about him.   
Was it some kind mystic creature that was going to eat him? Had Montparnasse gone insane?  
“Hello? I know you are here, even though I cannot see you well. If you have any money, I would be particularly grateful if you were to give it to me.”  
Yes. Montparnasse must have lost any semblance of sanity when he fell off the roof onto Grantaire’s balcony. There was no way he was currently sitting under a tree in the middle of nowhere while a _child_ was trying to rob him.   
Something dark was approaching Montparnasse’s face. It was already too late when he felt a hand grope his nose and cheeks. He had sworn himself he would stay calm and not put himself in any more danger than he already was, but it was too late. Montparnasse had taken a swing and pushed the child away.   
“Wow, no need to be so rude. Who are you to hit a child, anyway? Did no one ever teach you manners?”  
No, no one had ever cared enough to introduce Montparnasse to the concept of politeness, even though he managed perfectly fine learning it by himself, thank you very much.   
“Did no one teach you not to attack strangers who are bigger than you?”, Montparnasse asked and pulled his razor from his pocket. The familiar _zing_ and _clack_ when he snapped it open sunk into his soul like the warmth of a bath. He felt instantly calmer.   
“I did not attack you.”  
“Grabbing people’s faces in the dark very much counts as an attack, boy.”  
Montparnasse wondered how old the child was. He did not seem particularly tall and did not sound very old either. In a fraction of a second, Montparnasse realized he was threatening to kill a prepubescent boy.   
How long had he sunk?  
“Gavroche? Where are you?”, called a voice from Montparnasse’s right.   
The boy was not alone. This was getting from bad to worse.   
“I’m here! I found someone!”, the boy called back. Montparnasse hurried to his feet, careful not to knock the child over. There was no point in angering whoever was approaching. He could already hear the rustling in the bushes.   
“Goddamnit, Gavroche, I told you not to go too far! Oh. Hello.”  
The new arrival was holding a lantern and finally shining some light on the situation. Gavroche’s acquaintance was nothing like Montparnasse had expected – in the way that he had not expected anything. Dirty clothes, mud in the face and short hair, that looked like it had been cut with a blunt knife. The two of them paired off very well together.  
“Good Evening,” Montparnasse greeted in return. The situation could escalate at any moment, he had no idea who these people were after all, but he would be damned if he made the first step to ruin his already fickle future. The new arrival’s gaze dropped to the razor blade Montparnasse was still holding in his hand.   
“Were you about to kill Gavroche?”   
As always, people were immediately getting the wrong conclusions about Montparnasse. Carefully, he lifted the blade with his bare hand so they could see it clearly, holding it loosely between his index knuckle and his thumb.   
“As a matter of fact, he was trying to rob me.”  
This earned Gavroche a dirty look. Montparnasse was given an appraisal from head to toe.   
“What are young doing out here in the middle of the night, alone? And who are you, anyway?”  
“My name is Montparnasse. What I am doing here is none of your business. And now it would only be the polite thing to do for the two of you to introduce yourselves as well.”  
“I’m Gavroche,” chirped the boy and looked expectantly at his companion. Montparnasse had not expected him to give in to his command so easily, considering the cheek with which their small verbal spar had been fought mere moments ago.   
“I’m Éponine. Gavroche’s brother,” the other one said. Montparnasse squinted to discern some more details. He could discern some familiarity between the two. A certain poise in their posture, a specific timbre of suspicion in their voice; even without the sunlight to shine light on the finer details of their appearance, Montparnasse immediately believed Éponine about the familial connection between him and Gavroche.   
The wind brushed through the tree above Montparnasse as silence settled between them.   
“What are _you_ doing here alone?”, Montparnasse asked. Éponine still eyed the razor in his hand. Montparnasse did not retract the blade.   
“We’re not alone.”  
Éponine threw a look back to where he came from. Nothing indicated someone else’s presence. Montparnasse could slightly discern how Éponine put his hand on Gavroche’s shoulder and pulled his brother closer.   
“Do you want to come with us? It is not safe out here during the night and we have a fire.”  
It was clear from his tone of ways and the hesitation with which he spoke that the words did not come easily over Éponine’s lips. The blade in Montparnasse’s hand weighted heavy. He could still take advantage of them. The distance between them was short, easily bridged and if Montparnasse moved quickly enough, he could overpower them easily, despite their obvious distrust and attention on every movement he made.   
Overpowering other people had become his speciality, after all, and neither Gavroche nor Éponine look to be the type of men he had to keep away from. He had taken on worse than them and come out alive.   
However, Montparnasse was tired of getting out alive of situations when there was a possibility of greater chance.   
He flipped the razor close.   
“Yes. Lead the way.” He showed the direction Éponine originally came from. The man frowned.   
“I will not allow you to walk behind us with a knife.”  
“I put the knife away.”  
“You will walk with us unless you give it to me.”  
They both knew what an absurd idea this was. Montparnasse would never agree to conditions like these. He was tired, but not of life.   
“Very well.” They all began to walk back at the same pace. The grass was cracking under Montparnasse’s shoe soles.  
Minutes poured by like oatmeal, slow and sticky and Montparnasse could not believe that he was now walking through the wilderness in the middle of the night with two strangers, one of whom had tried to rob him.   
“How long do we have left?”  
“Only a bit more.”  
“How am I supposed to know you won’t abduct me?”  
“If we wanted to abduct you, we could have done it back there, no need to hear you whine for the entirety of the way back,” Gavroche said. The kid was too quick on his feet for Montparnasse’s liking.   
“And anyway, what would we abduct you for? You don’t have any money, you said so yourself.”  
Montparnasse did not bother responding. He was too tired to engage with a small criminal gremlin at this time of day.   
The grass under Montparnasse’s boots grew thinner and was slowly replaced by beaten ground. It was as if nature itself had taken a backseat for a stretch several meters wide and seemingly an eternity long. A small glimmer of light burned in form a simmering coal on the other side of the road.   
“Gavroche! What took you so long? Were you going to run away and abandon us?”, a snarky, sharp voice asked. Montparnasse immediately regretted coming with Éponine and Gavroche. He had learned long ago that guilt was not a feeling he should let anyone induce in him for petty reasons and after Grimal had not managed to do so, Montparnasse preferred not to waste his time with people of this kind.   
But the embers looked enticing. And Gavroche was just so young. Who knew on whose side of this travel company his brother was on?   
“Gavroche tried to rob someone.”  
Another voice, slightly higher, grunted. If Montparnasse interpreted the noise correctly, it signified slightly disgruntled approvement.   
“Why only tried?”  
“The boy had no money.”  
Montparnasse was insulted. No one had called him a boy in ages. Not since he had taken over the Tailor Shop at least. He was likely older than Éponine!  
“Huh, tough luck.”  
“Did he had anything on him we can sell?”, asked a third voice, peevish and juvenile.   
Gavroche turned around and looked up to Montparnasse.   
“ _Do_ you have anything we can sell?”, he asked. Montparnasse shook his head in the darkness before answering out loud.   
“No.”  
“Liar. We can sell your pretty little razor in the next town.”, interjected Éponine.   
“No.” The mere idea of allowing these people to get their grabby fingers on Montparnasse’s possessions made him want to slaughter them all, even if it meant wandering alone out here for an indeterminate amount of time.   
“Did you take him with you?” The question resonated with indignation. A sharp noise, as if a non-existent wind was blowing close by, rang and the embers flamed up. The sudden brightness of the campfire took Montparnasse by surprise and he lifted his arm in front of his eyes to shield his eyes from the light.   
A small face, half hidden by a hideously kept beard pushed into his personal space. The smell of alcohol was pungent, nearly forcing Montparnasse to take a step back. He stood his ground, however; this was neither the time nor place to submit to anyone, especially to drunk strangers.   
“He’s well dressed. Tell me boy, where did you get this?” The man lifted Montparnasse cravat, which hung loosely around his neck after he had untied it as soon as he left the city walls of Paris behind him, and eyed it curiously.   
It was glaringly obvious what kind of person he was. The faint smell of food hung in the air and he seemed to be the person in command, so Montparnasse would have to get into his good favours. This was something as easily done as said.   
“I stole it, back when I was in the city.”  
A glimmer of curiosity shone in the man’s eyes.   
“A razor blade, stolen clothes. You seem to be the type of man who is not afraid of getting his hands dirty to obtain the nice necessary things in life. Tell me: are you good at what you do?”  
 _Yes._ would have been the simple answer, and the truth on top of that. Under these circumstances, a simple answer was not enough.   
“I’m the best.”  
“Hm.”  
The man backed away and sat down next to the fire. Montparnasse could now see that blankets were laid around the fire in a circle, 5 in total. A woman was stocking the wood and embers to revive the flame and the third person was a girl, looking at him curiously, hiding her face behind her blanket when he looked in her direction.   
The bearded man sat down on his cot and signalled Montparnasse to come closer. Gavroche and Éponine had crouched down next to the girl and were not paying attention to him. The razor was still a reassuring weight in his inner breast pocket just in case someone got the idea to back stab or attack him in some other physical manner.   
“So, where are you from, Boy?”, the man asked and dragged his filthy fingers along the outer fabric of Montparnasse’s sleeve. Irritated, Montparnasse snipped the hand away. His clothes might have been filthy from the murder, escape and long travel that brought him here, but it was no freeway permission to sully them any further. Especially since the first impression the man gave was far dirtier than any voyage or string of occurrences could wreak upon Montparnasse’s appearance.   
“Paris.”  
“Touchy.” The man inspected his nails as if Montparnasse’s reaction had never happened. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me. So, what are you doing out here, instead of celebrating your life away in the capital?”  
“That is none of your business, old man.”  
A sly smile spread across the man’s lips. Montparnasse could see he was missing one of his canine teeth.   
“So not as much of an idiot as I thought you were. Which direction you’re going to?”  
“I was hoping to reach Lille.”  
The man arched an eyebrow. This was the impression Montparnasse got, at least, but considering the among of hair on his face, it was rather difficult for him to distinguish any peculiar facial movements.   
“Without any food or material except what you are wearing right now? Not a chance. You’ll die before the Sunday bells ring.”  
“You seem pretty sure of that. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”  
“I can see that you are wearing expensive clothes, have nicely cut hair and speak like I used to when some rich folks got into my tavern. I would give you two days tops.”  
“So, what do you want from me, then?”  
Because it was obvious that the man was not telling Montparnasse all this out of the sheer goodness of his heart. He was interested in something Montparnasse could potentially offer him. Otherwise, he would have kicked him away, if not tried to kill him directly, here and there, were he was standing.   
“You seem like a smart fella. I could need someone like you. We have some food; we know how to make fire and there’s a spare blanket.”  
“What do you need me for?”  
Montparnasse was hungry, exhausted, and cold, but he was not stupid. There was never anything given freely in this world, especially not from men like this.   
“Money is hard to come by these days. I could use an additional pair of hands. A clean pair of hands. At least to their eyes.”  
There were no questions asked as whose eyes he was talking about.   
“What do I get out of it?”, Montparnasse asked.   
“Food. A bed to sleep in. We will cover your back if ever need be.”  
“So, I would be your lure and you rob people. If I’m in, I want half of the profit.”   
The man snorts.   
“Someone must have cradled you to close to the wall when you were young, boy. No way. One Tenth at most.”  
Montparnasse had expected him to start at five percent. It seemed he was in more dire need of help than he had let shine through at first glance.   
“40 percent.”  
“15.”  
“35.”  
“20.”  
“30.”  
The man narrowed his eyes. Montparnasse could see how others might fear him. But he did not; he had learned a long time ago that fear did not pay off, no matter the circumstances.   
“25. And that’s my last word,” he grumbled.   
“30.” Montparnasse smiled and stretched out his hand. They had both known it would come to this. Maybe the other had foolishly hoped that Montparnasse, young as he was, would be too naïve, too inexperienced to insist on his fair share. He had hoped wrong. Montparnasse might be young, but he had learned his craft well. He would allow no one to pull him over the barrel, especially not some two-penny conman off the side of the road.   
The other man accepted his handshake.   
“30 percent it is. You drive a hard bargain, lad.”  
“So I have been told. You can call me Montparnasse.”  
“Thénardier. You’ve already met Éponine and Gavroche. The other one over there, name’s Azelma. MADAME!”  
The woman stocking the fire looked up.  
“Bring the lad a blanket and give him something to eat. He’ll join us.”  
She threw Montparnasse a look that was less than appreciative. Grumbling about _having to feed another hungry mouth_ , and _how this bastard never asked he opinion on anything_ , she waddled to a small carriage with two horses. Montparnasse hadn’t seen them in the darkness but now that he knew they were there, it was impossible to ignore their heavy breathing and occasional neighing.   
A few moments later, a blanket was thrown with full force into Montparnasse’s face. The bowl of stew pressed into his hands was nearly ice cold.  
“We will set out after sun set. There is no time to lose,” Thénardier said, already wrapping himself up again, prepared to fall asleep and leave the rest of the world to its pitiful demise.   
“Thénardier,” Montparnasse called him. His razor was once again open in his palm, the blade glistening in the moonlight.   
“Hm?” Thénardier was not happy about being held up even longer.   
“If you even think about backstabbing me, remember, my knife will be swifter than yours.” Montparnasse let the razor slam shut. The faint metallic cling echoed over the small camp the Thénardiers had built up on the side of the road.   
No one said anything until Montparnasse falls asleep.   
He could see Éponine, head hanging low, lost in thoughts, starring into the slowly dying embers. He was standing watch, silently. Montparnasse thought that he would make for a good traveling companion.   
After all, silence can be worth as much as gold.

*** 

Awake and well rested, Gavroche was even more annoying than the night before. As soon as everyone had packed their belongings, he clung to Montparnasse’s legs as if he was an abandoned puppy. Montparnasse wished he would not feel guilty about it if he kicked the boy until he left him alone.   
Unfortunately, he was born with feelings and thus decided to suffer through the onslaught of questions and snickering remarks. The boy would have to learn his lesson when he was older, and Montparnasse would have lost all mercy in this regard.   
“Why do you have a razor blade instead of a knife? You will never do a good job with it. It will dull too quickly, y’know?” The boys childish voice is like metal scraping over stone in his ear. Insufferable.   
“It’s sharp enough to slit your throat if you continue talking.”  
“You wouldn’t do that.”  
“How can you be so sure?”  
“You would have killed me yesterday already. Now it’s too late. Éponine knows you now. He would never let you escape if anything were to happen to me.”  
“You’re putting a lot of trust into your family.”  
“Not my family. Just Éponine.”  
“He cannot see you right now.”  
Indeed, Éponine was walking alone in front of them, a makeshift carrier on his back. Staring straight ahead if Montparnasse saw it correctly. Somewhat of a lone wolf if he was being honest with himself. But it was obvious he cared about Gavroche and Montparnasse was not sure he would leave a fight, should it occur, as the winner. The food from this night had been a beginning, but far from enough to satisfy his hunger.   
Gavroche simply grinned at Montparnasse and skipped forward until he could take Éponine’s hand. He stuck out his tongue and Montparnasse and continued babbling to his older brother. Montparnasse could not hear what he was saying, but the wind carried the boy’s voice over to him, nonetheless. Could Gavroche ever shut up?  
After some time walking alone on the road of beaten dirt, observing the environment on the right and left side of the path, Montparnasse grew bored. Now that he knew he would have food and a fire when they decided to take a break for the night, he had very few things left to think about. Thénardier’s offer was a good point to orient himself anew. He would have to see how the entire enterprise turned out in practice, but so far, he couldn’t complain. The man was slimy and under any other circumstances, Montparnasse would have preferred not to associate himself with him, but survival was not anything he could allow himself to follow his personal whims on. He had been hanging over a canyon when Thénardier had given him a hand and Montparnasse had accepted it. Maybe he would push Thénardier over the edge himself as soon as he had solid ground under his feet once more, but that was something he would have to decide at a later date. First, he was stuck with them until further notice.   
The night was slightly warmer than it had been the day before. The fire was blazing in the middle of their social circle, Thénardier to Montparnasse’s left, Gavroche and then Éponine on his right. Azelma and Madame Thénardier were occupied with making a stew over the flames. Montparnasse had to admit that whatever their end result turned out to be, it smelled nice.   
“So, Thénardier. Now that I am officially part of your little troupe: what _exactly_ is the plan you so desperately need me for?” As he was asking the question and waiting for the food to be done, Montparnasse played with his razor. The repetitive, incessant _clack_ when the blade escaped the handle and returned to it a few seconds later was soothing balm on his nerves. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Éponine and Gavroche eyeing his movement with curiosity.   
Thénardier threw a dry branch into the flames. It did nothing to heighten the already fully functional fire.  
“We will take advantage of the rich folk's need to show off how generous and charitable they are. _You_ ” He pointed another little branch — nothing more than a stick, really — at Montparnasse. “will be gravely injured.”  
Montparnasse left the razor open.   
“ _What?_ ”  
“Cool down. We will have to convince everyone that you suffered a terrible attack on your travels, a brave young man, robbed of all his possessions. We will have to find a believable story to explain why you desperately need to get all of them back. Let’s say you were on your way to your sweetheart, whose father is a cruel, reactionary baron or something, who would never leave his daughter to some bourgeois scoundrel. You had hoped to win his favour and the hand of the gal by proving him of your worth through your hard work, presenting him with riches and appear every inch the nobleman you know you can be. Unfortunately, everything you had prepared for your grand appearance is now gone, stolen by scoundrels, who were too quick and too terrifying for you to remember anything about. You following so far?”  
Montparnasse nodded. The plan was not complicated. All they expected him to do was play a part and cash in the pity the rich would show when they saw a desperate fate which could possibly happen to them. It was not a stupid plan by far. It simply wasn’t the most efficient in Montparnasse’s eyes. Grabbing and running had proven to be remarkably effective for him so far, but that didn’t seem to be Thénardier’s style.  
“Of course, we will be compensated for our noble behaviour of caring for you and bringing you to safety. After the whole affair, I expect us to have money, a horse for you, new clothes and good food and wine, maybe some jewels, anything that could function as gifts fit for some marital bribery.”  
“And?”  
“Rinse and repeat, as necessary.”  
Montparnasse snorted.   
“To what end?”, he asked. Surely, Thénardier did not expect this charade to be their only way of living. Word would spread too quickly.   
“I expect us to get a bigger carriage within a week. Then we can go find a good village, maybe a small town, open a tavern, maybe an inn. Someplace people with money like to go to, or they have no other choice.”  
“You? An inn?”  
“Don’t be disrespectful, boy. I’ve run several successful businesses in my life.”  
“Hm,” answered Montparnasse. After all, this wasn’t his problem. His role in the entire affair was simple. And if he got 30 percent out of the ordeal, as Thénardier had said, he could always jump off the sinking ship if things got complicated.   
“Very well. Where shall we tell the tale of the robbery first?”  
Thénardier smiled his grin. He was truly missing a tooth; Montparnasse’s eyes had not deceived him.   
“There is a village a few more kilometres from here. 15, maybe 20 in total. Nothing spectacular, but a good beginning. We should be there by noon tomorrow.”   
Montparnasse nodded. The razor slammed shut once more. Madame Thénardier put her wooden spoon to the side. It was time to eat.

*** 

When Thénardier had explained his plan, Montparnasse had understood it very easily. After all, it was the project of no mastermind and it was likely that even a child could have understood what he had to do. Dishevelled hair, ripped clothing, a bit of mud and something that looked like blood everywhere and the appropriate desperate declamation about every chance with the love of his life being now lost. This had been the theory. What Montparnasse had not realised, was how this entire affair would roll out in practice.   
It was humiliating.   
The clothes Thénardier had prepared to him were the beginning of the awfulness of the entire affair. The cloth was cheap, they were wrongly sewn, they did not fit in any place. The moment his skin touched the fabric, Montparnasse could feel an irritable itch crawl up his arm and back. Anyone, even a baby could have spotted this from a mile away as nothing but a cheap costume and a bad one at that.  
This would not do.   
He had needed several hours to mend the garment into something that could pass off as having once been presentable, maybe even impressionable. Something a lovesick fool would wear to win his love’s hand in marriage. After all, Montparnasse took great pride in his work, no matter if sewing or conning someone out of their good senses. He would not allow this to be a failure simply because Thénardier did not know what he was getting himself into. The people they would be tricking would be gullible, but also vain to the heavens and very aware of their apparent superiority.   
After all, Montparnasse knew from own experience how easily one could lose their favour as soon as one danced the wrong step to the sound of their pipe. He would not do the same mistake twice.   
By the time he was hunched over Thénardier’s back by one arm, Montparnasse knew 30 percent were far too little a reward for the energy required to put up with this man.   
The plan, however, worked out perfectly. Thénardier knocked on the door of the first house they encountered, babbled something about having found this poor man on the side of the road, helpless, with barely any clothes, if they someone who could help. It took only a few minutes before Montparnasse was hoisted into a bed and dotted over by a middle-aged woman, shouting at her son to go tell Madame Jarjein, who would surely know what to do in this situation. Half an hour later, Montparnasse had managed to press out one or two tears while telling the story of the love of his life which was now surely forever out of reach to him, which resulted in several women sniffling at his feet while they listened to him.   
Unfortunately, the village was no golden cow and the payment Montparnasse received for his stellar acting performance, even though it went unnoticed, turned out far less than he had hoped for. A pouch full of coins, some new clothes and expensive, but nevertheless useless items everyone had agreed on were the perfect gifts to soften a stonen heart: flowers, a few books and some jewellery. Montparnasse wondered who had asked these women’s’ parents for their hands, for their expectations about a spouse’s bribery were next to non-existent. He was quite sure their charitable donations for the quest of true love would not have allowed him to even set foot into one of the more prestigious residences in Paris, let alone marry the owner’s daughter.   
Nonetheless, he played on his part, smiled, thanked everyone for their help and picked out the few things he could imagine having some use for as the 30 percent of the agreement. When Thénardier began cursing the inhabitants of the village for not giving more, Montparnasse sat down beside Éponine and Gavroche and stayed silent.   
It went on for the next few weeks. Sometimes the whole play was more successful than others, depending on their luck and how rich the villages or towns in question were. Soon, they had acquired two more horses, whom they left out of town under Gavroche’s and Éponine’s watchful eyes, some clothes — some of which Azelma was tasked with selling as quickly as possible if Thénardier did not find them to his liking or decided they had no use for them — and in the end, more money than Montparnasse had ever owned in his entire life.   
Every time they left town, he insisted on his share of thirty percent. Once or twice, he could see Éponine smile when Thénardier handed the money over begrudgingly.   
Montparnasse had just taken of his costume and washed off the mud off his skin. He gracefully accepted the stiff piece of clothing he used as a towel that Éponine offered him.   
“You were successful, this time”, he said. Montparnasse hummed approvingly. Éponine was right. Thénardier had finally obtained his long-awaited carriage. The expensive shirt and few pieces of jewellery Montparnasse had incorporated into his costume had done wonders in convincing the local industrial that he was indeed one of his people and therefore deserving of any help he could give.   
“Yes. Let’s hope this whole charade will be over soon.”  
The air was cold. The hair on Montparnasse’s skin rose into Goosebumps in the short moment he needed to pull his clothes on after rubbing himself dry.   
Éponine was staring into the distance. He was doing this quite often, Montparnasse noticed. He wondered where his companion’s head was in times like these.   
“What will you do with your money?”, Éponine asked, without looking at Montparnasse. He had slung his arms around his knees and suddenly seemed so small, like a child in need of a hug. From everything he had been able to observe, Montparnasse knew Madame Thénardier was not the kind of mother to instinctively offer emotional and physical warmth to her children.   
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about opening a tailor shop again.”  
Éponine’s head snapped around. His eyes were big and filled with wonder as he starred at Montparnasse.   
“You’re a tailor?”  
“Yes. Do you think mending these travesties — Montparnasse lifted his robbed-richman-clothes — is something I just knew to pull off? What did you think I used to do?”  
“I don’t know,” mumbled Éponine. “I’ve never particularly thought about it. You’re not the kind of person to have a past.”  
Montparnasse did not ask what he meant by that. The stood next to each other and starred across the river in silence.   
“You know, Éponine- “, Montparnasse began after a while. “when I have opened my shop, or at least have the proper material again; I could make you some proper clothes. A Jacket, a shirt- A few garments can go a long way and you wouldn’t have to bind anymore; or at least not as often.”  
Montparnasse gestured vaguely in Éponine’s direction, where he knew that under his crossed arms and dirty shirt were hiding tightly pressed bandages, blistering skin and leaves rashes on his sides and back, making him quietly whimper in pain whenever he took them off at night.   
They did not talk about it, but Montparnasse could image how much it must hurt.   
Éponine’s smile was faint and Montparnasse could have easily missed it in the slowly falling dusk.   
“You would do that?”, Éponine asked.  
“Of course.”  
“That would be nice.”  
Montparnasse’s clothes very still sticking to his damp skin. He really hoped Thénardier’s traveling rounds of con tricks would be over soon. Montparnasse longed for a bed. He was not made for long journeys on the road like this.   
“I’m going to warm up. Are you coming?”, he asked Éponine.   
“I will catch up. Just need to wash up real quick,” he answered.   
“Don’t take too long. You know how insufferable Gavroche can get.”  
Éponine laughed.   
“Stop playing so tough. You love it when you’re the only one he pays attention to.”  
“Tss. I would do anything for the brat to leave me alone.”  
In a fleeting moment, over almost instantly, Montparnasse laid his hand on Éponine’s shoulder and squeezed him tightly.   
He did not say anything as he walked towards the faint shine of the fire Azelma had lit for this night’s camp. Éponine needed these moments of loneliness, free of his family, of anyone else, far and few between as they were.   
Silence was the only thing Montparnasse could give him.

*** 

Montparnasse’s wishes were answered.   
The next town was small, but not miniscule. Big enough that one did not have to know everyone, but no labyrinth of streets and alleys it was inevitable to get lost in. It took a few days, but Montparnasse soon found an old lady who was delighted to sell him her shop. He could see from her joints that work was not an option for her anymore and she talked endlessly about how happy she was to finally have the money to visit her son and see her grandchildren for the first time. All in all, opening the tailor shop was far less expensive that Montparnasse had expected it to be and there had been next to no need for bargaining. As soon as the papers were signed and the shop with arguable big windows on the ground floors officially belonged to Montparnasse, he got to work. Winter was knocking on everyone’s door, and now was the time to build up a clientele more than ever.   
It had been some time since Montparnasse had lost Madame Brilal’s shop, a few years in fact, he had forgotten how insufferable some clients could be. Finding customers was no problem. Getting rid of the ones Montparnasse did not want, however, was an entirely different affair. Too short deadlines, arguing that his prices were too high, trying to tell him how to do his craft or simply requesting absolutely hideous designs no one in their right mind would be able to wear and Montparnasse categorically refused to waste time and fabric; the list of idiotic demands Montparnasse had to put up with each day, especially after word had made rounds that the new man in the corner shop was simply divine at his craft, seemed endless. Montparnasse was also quite sure that some of his clients only entered the shop for a fitting, without having ever had the intention of ordering anything. A young girl giggled when he kneeled at her feet to pin the hem of her skirt in place and glanced at her friend before breaking out into badly concealed laughter.   
All in all, Montparnasse should have been content with what he had achieved. This had always been his dream. The people respected him, they knew nothing about his past and therefore could not point his fingers at him and money was flowing generously while Montparnasse was occupied with doing something he not only was good at, but that he also liked. From every perspective he looked at the problem, he should have been content, more than happy with the situation he had built for himself. And yet there was a crawling under his skin, a restlessness he could not give a name. Something was not to his liking, but he did not know _what_.  
The garments he had promised Éponine were coming along nicely. At first, he had not known what to make, did not have an image of what he wanted his friend to look like. It had taken an evening in which Éponine had knocked on his door, sniffling blood up his nose and gripping Gavroche’s hand as he was his anchor — or was it the other way around? —, asking if they could stay for the night, for Montparnasse to know what he needed to do.   
Gavroche had thought it a good idea to try on Montparnasse’s clothes. The pieces looked ridiculous on the small boy, big and formless, more like a costume than anything else. Montparnasse wondered if that was what he had looked like in his early days, when he had been running around Madame Brilal’s shop, trying to impress everyone around him, to make them give him a chance.   
“Come on, Éponine! You should try on some as well!”, Gavroche screamed and threw a shirt at his brother, who entangled himself in the garment the more he tried to get it away from his face.   
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gav. Parnasse doesn’t like it.“  
“Tell Éponine to wear your clothes, Raph! Come on, tell him!”  
The boy was jumping incessantly, as if metal springs had been built into his feet. Éponine looked pleadingly at Montparnasse. His gaze alone begged him to free him from the suffering his brother’s demands were putting him under. Éponine would probably have sworn that he would rather burn in the pits of hell for all eternity rather than give in to his _frérot’s_ demands.  
No one could say that Montparnasse had left his sadistic tendencies in his youth.   
“I think Gavroche is right. You should definitely try on everything he likes and show it off,” he said, grinning. Éponine’s face fell apart under his eyes.   
“I hate all of you. One day, you will regret treating me this way. You will wish you had never been born.”  
It was too late for Éponine. Gavroche was already running around, ripping open wardrobes and drawer’s, throwing out garment after garment.   
Still grinning, Montparnasse fished out his shirt from between Éponine’s fingers and straightened out the fabric before lifting it up by its shoulders.   
“Theirs is no escape. Come on, the sooner you get it over with, the sooner you’ll escape Gavroche’s omnipotent desires.”  
It should not be said that Montparnasse would enjoy having to clean up the chaos the youngest Thénardier child was making in his chambers, but the look of resigned misery on his friend’s face was utterly worth it.   
Montparnasse’s entire wardrobe was spread across his room’s floors by the time Gavroche had finally felt merciful and allowed Éponine to fall into an armchair and rest. It was interesting to see him so at ease. Ever since seeing him for the first time, Éponine had always seemed restless, as if his clothes were too tight, itching, something he would rather pull off his body. Now, he had thrown himself over the chair, legs crossed over the left armrest and playing with the untied cravat laying around his neck. It looked natural, as if this was how Éponine had always looked like, as if this was how he had always been.   
Montparnasse could see an image form in his mind.   
“Ponine,” he asked.   
“Hm?” Éponine seemed slightly drowsy, as if he could fall asleep any moment. It was the first time Montparnasse had seen him this relaxed.   
“What colours do you like?”  
“For what?”  
“Your clothes.”  
Éponine sat up instantly, back straight, starring at Montparnasse with his eyes wide open.   
“What clothes?”  
“The jacket, a shirt. I think trousers and a good vest would really pull everything together. Maybe we can even find a hat and some shoes for you. These look good on you, you know.”  
A light shade of red was covering Éponine’s face. It was delightful to see him embarrassed like this.   
“I haven’t- Didn’t think you’d remember,” he stuttered, looking anywhere but in Montparnasse’s face.   
“I promised you.”  
“That doesn’t mean you have to do it.”  
Montparnasse quirked an eyebrow.  
“Are you sure you know what the word ‘ _promise_ ’ means?”  
Éponine threw a pillow in his face. Montparnasse caught it in the last second and laughed.  
“Light blue.”  
“What?”   
“You asked what colour I like. A light blue, like the sky behind thin clouds, or a strong chestnut brown, warm, the one that turns gold in the sunlight.” A dreamish smile played upon his lips, and he was starring in the air, as if he were somewhere far away. There was something more behind these colours, but Montparnasse knew better than to pry for unshared history.  
“Very well. That is something I can work with. What style do you want?”  
Éponine snapped back into reality.   
“What do you mean, style?”  
“I cannot believe you’ve known me for this long and have no idea what I mean when I say style. What impression do you want to give? What do you want people to think of you the first time the lay eyes upon you?”  
“I- Why are you asking?”  
Montparnasse had to refrain himself from throwing the pillow back at Éponine.   
“Why? Éponine, these things are important! I will not spend countless _precious_ hours of my time to make clothes you feel uncomfortable in and end up not even liking! So, style?”  
“Well, I’ve never thought about it, I don’t know…”  
“Again, what do you want people to think of you when they see you for the first time?”  
“I- Well- Uhm, I want to be nice? Approachable?”  
“And?”  
“Well, cultivated, a- a man of the world, who belongs. I want people to admire me, they should want to get to know me better.”  
“Everyone?”  
“No, just the nice ones.”  
“Everyone thinks they’re nice, Ponine!”, interjected Gavroche. He was laying at Montparnasse’s feet and trying to read the notes he was taking upside-down.  
“Well, I want people like Montparnasse to want to get to know me better. I want them to think I can be their friend.”  
“I’m not nice, Éponine.”  
Gavroche and Éponine starred at Montparnasse.   
“So, approachable, I-want-to-be-that-person is what you wish for, is that correct?”  
“Y-Yeah.” Éponine nodded.   
Well, this would be a piece of work. It did not sound like Éponine had even the slightest idea of what would look good on him, let alone what _he_ thought would look good on him.   
“Mmh, I can work with that.”  
Gavroche was surprisingly heavy as he tackled Montparnasse and wrestled him to the ground, both arms wrapped around his torso.   
“You’re the best, Montparnasse! Can you make me clothes next?”  
“What? No!” Montparnasse tried to push Gavroche away, but earned an aching finger instead, where the boy had bitten him.   
“Why not?”  
“You just bit me? Why would I do anything nice for you?”  
“If you don’t, I’ll bite you again!”  
“You’d probably grow out of it before I even finish one piece, let alone an entire outfit!”  
“So make me clothes when I’ve finished growing!”  
“I seriously doubt I’ll still have the energy to put up with you by then!”  
“You’re so mean, Montparnasse! Éponine, tell him he should make me clothes as well!”  
“Why?”, asked Éponine, still lounging in the armchair.   
“Because you’re my older brother and it is your duty to help me!”  
“No.”  
Gavroche finally let go to attack Éponine instead. The room was dark and only a few candles were lit, yet Montparnasse had seldomly felt more awake.   
He wondered if Gavroche managed to befriend every person he tried to rob in the middle of the night.

*** 

Montparnasse was good at his craft, and he was not lacking in money. But the itching under his skin did not disappear. If anything, it grew stronger with every passing day, every week. Occasionally, he would help out Thénardier with an odd con-job or serve as a distraction for a bigger robbery, but even the satisfaction from those intermissions were not sustainable in the long run.  
Montparnasse was not made for a sedentary lifestyle, and he was growing restless.   
On the other side of town, there was a house. It was big and beautiful and obviously well taken care off. The garden, surrounded by a great wall, was topped off by luscious green leaves. One could only imagine the plants hiding behind the assembly of bricks.   
Montparnasse spent quite some time imagining the material riches being kept within the walls of the residence.   
It was time, he decided, to invest some energy in his other refined skills, the less socially accepted kind. After all, a jack of all trades was better than a master of one and Montparnasse was determined to be a master in every field he decided to apply himself to.   
A week later, he discovered than none of his skills had rusted; not in the slightest.   
The brick wall felt cold under his touch. Thankfully, winter was already beginning to recede its frozen claws and the stone was not icy to anymore, but had they not made his ascent more slippery and dangerous, Montparnasse would have worn gloves for this climbing spree. Everything would go by without a hitch and he would leave the house satisfied and with his pockets a bit fuller. The old man living in the house had gone out, top hat on and cane in hand. The buttons on his coat had glistened under the light of the streetlamp.   
No one would disturb Montparnasse during his unannounced visit of the house, he was sure of it.   
He climbed on top of the garden wall which was connecting to the house. The plants would hide him from view on the street and simultaneously give him solid ground to stand on while he levered one of the windows on the second floor. The warmth that welcomed Montparnasse as he lifted himself into the room was a gift he had craved. His heart was beating in his ears. This was what he had missed. Now he was in his element.   
The thick carpet on the floor muffled his steps. Even so, Montparnasse was careful to tread lightly. He could not allow himself to leave any trace out of stupidity and arrogance. He knew others who had fallen from grace for smaller things.   
The house was a treasury, hidden from the outside. Dark, heavy curtains hung in front of a mirror, partially hiding it. Only the light from outside, from both moon and streetlamps, allowed Montparnasse to see anything in their faint flow. He was in an alien world and he could not to explore it. His fingers glided over dark wood, perfectly polished and smooth to the touch. He could smell the faint odour of spices and herbs, as if this was a temple with an altar, worshippers came to kneel in front of.  
Montparnasse’s heart was thrumming in his ears and his pulse rushing through his body like a torrent in the mountains. This was his home. This was what he had craved for all these years.   
He was damned if he let anyone keep him from taking it all for himself.   
A faint cling, like coins in a purse, sang out in the darkness. Montparnasse froze in place. He had thought he was alone, the old man living in the house had left, after all, but maybe he had assumed things too quickly. A vivid image, Gavroche sitting next to him at a table, a single candle illuminating his features, came to life behind his eyes.   
_Do you believe in ghosts, Montparnasse?_  
He didn’t, of course. But he was humble enough, smart enough, _experienced enough_ to admit that there are things he did not know.   
He was also curious and brash enough to seek answers.   
A faint scraping, like the belt buckle of a body being dragged across the floor.   
Someone else was here with Montparnasse, he was sure of it.   
_Who’s there?_ , he wanted to cry out, but stayed silent. If the enemy was invisible, it was best not to take them on blindly. Slowly, he crept forward, careful not to let anything fall and betray him, his position, tell anything about his presence.   
Trampling, something heavy repeatedly hitting the floor behind Montparnasse made him turn around. He only managed to catch a glimpse of something white, fleeting, gone as quickly as it had appeared. Maybe a dress? Maybe a shirt left free, not tucked in? Maybe the white flag of defeat.   
The latter was unlikely, but Montparnasse grinned at the thought. He had a reputation to defend, even if it was known to no one but himself.   
He took a few steps in the direction of the appearance, which was now gone, as if it had never existed.   
Something sharp and cold touched his back, right between his shoulder blades. If he took one step back, it would rip right through his clothes and the upper layers of his skin.   
Montparnasse barely dared to breathe. He would not get a drop of blood on his shirt, not this night.   
“Good evening.”  
The voice was melodious. Was this what sirens sounded like? Had he not known better, Montparnasse would have turned around and likely moved right into Death’s embrace.   
The point moved up his spine until it nested along the right side of his jaw. Now, Montparnasse could see that he was held at Rapier’s end. Death’s welcoming embrace, indeed.   
“Good evening,” he replied, barely able to swallow without feeling the sharp edge of the metal against his skin. The blade pressed slightly closer.   
“Turn around,” the voice said.   
Montparnasse obeyed willingly. A shiver ran up his spine at the thought of finally laying eyes on his captor.   
Before he could do so, the reflection of the light on the sharpened blade captured his attention. The tip of the rapier was now slightly digging in the soft skin under his skin. Montparnasse could already see himself, impaled on the straight plane of iron, blood staining skin, clothes, and floor.   
How gruesome.   
Montparnasse truly deserved a demise more fitting of his earthly beauty. Even though, he had to admit, the thought of his skin, contrasted to the dark floor and the life seeping out of him, skull, mouth, and jaw, was an enticing one. A painter could make a masterpiece out of this if they were skilled enough.  
“What are you doing in my house?”  
But no artist could do justice to the image standing before him.   
The flash of white had not been a dress. It was a nightshirt and reached to the middle of their shins. It fell straight to their shoulders, only laced closed at the wrists, bony and visually fragile, but the grip of their hands was strong and confident.  
Montparnasse could die if he did not choose his next words carefully.  
He decided to tell the truth.  
“I was… bored.”  
The sword dug slightly deeper into his chin.  
“Bored of what?”  
“My day-to-day existence.”  
Their eyes were dark, like a never-ending cave one was sure to get lost in. Montparnasse could not tear his gaze away.   
They lowered the sword until it was resting on Montparnasse’s collarbone. Only a few centimetres further down, and it would rest just on top of his heart.   
“Does assaulting people in their own homes relieve you of this boredom?”  
“I did not know you would be home.”  
Montparnasse was growing hot under their gaze. There must be a fireplace nearby, for he could already feel sweat pooling at the nape of his neck.   
“Hm.”  
“What must I say for you to stop pointing this sword at me? I would greatly dislike to bleed on your carpet.”  
“How kind of you to worry about my flooring.”  
“It is my pleasure.”   
The thrill under Montparnasse’s skin had not yet died down. Instead, it had even grown stronger, more enthralling. This was fun. This was exactly what he needed.   
A sharp pain pulled him from his thoughts.   
“Oh, fuck,” the other person swore. The sword dropped to the floor in an ear-splitting rumble. Aghast, Montparnasse starred at the blood pooling out of the straight, clean opening from his left collarbone to his right pectoral.  
It _hurt._  
“You cut me?!”, he asked.   
“I’m so sorry, shit, this is not what I wanted, fuck I’m sorry, my hand was slippery.”  
While they were rambling, the attacker tore away a strip of cloth from their nightgown and pressed it to the open wound on Montparnasse’s chest. Still shocked from the actual injury he was to carry away from their encounter, Montparnasse mechanically pressed it against his flesh and let it absorb the blood.   
“It’s okay, I’ve-“  
“No, wait here, I’ll find something to bandage it, something- anything…”   
They jumped to their feet and ran away. Montparnasse was left alone in the room, pressing a cloth from his attacker’s clothes against his wound, a rapier at his feet.   
This is not what he had expected when he had entered the house. He was at loss what to do.   
He had been discovered. They had seen his face; he had talked to them. It was a stupid mistake, even an amateur would have known better. Still, running away now would be… rude.   
Montparnasse decided he would stay until they brought him bandages. There was no point in running into the cold with an open wound.   
He had not moved a single centimetre when they came back, gauze and bandages in their left, a bottle of water in their right hand.   
“Oh, great, you’re still here!”, they said and carefully put everything down on a dresser next to Montparnasse.   
“Where else would I be?”  
“I don’t know. You do not seem the kind of person to listen to strangers. I would not blame you, all things considering, but I am still glad you’ll allow me to take care of you.”  
Their hands were soft and warm as they moved Montparnasse jacket and shirt away, at least the shreds which were still covering his chest. He wrapped his hands around their wrists and slightly pushed their hands away.   
“Allow me.”   
Without waiting for a response, Montparnasse pulled off his jacket and vest. The wound stung as his flesh and skin stretched to accommodate the movement. Carefully, he lifted his arms to pull his shirt over his head.   
He could hear a sharp breath as the cloth left his torso in full view.   
“I did not think it would be this big…”, the said. Their hand was slightly trembling as they put it on Montparnasse’s chest, lightly tracing the injury their sword had left on his body. Montparnasse’s muscles tensed at the skin to skin contact.   
“Right, bandages…”, they said, more to themselves than to Montparnasse or anything else in the room. Almost a whisper. Their red hair, shinning like warm brass in the light of the candle, was swept behind their shoulder and they went to work. Their brows furrowed in concentration, giving them almost a look of anger. Montparnasse could not help but stare, fascinated, as they first cleaned his wound and then slowly, carefully wrapped his chest in the bandages they had brought. It was as if his nerves died off as the contact between his skin and their hands grew lesser and lesser the longer they were at work.   
A dull crash resonated downstairs, just as the last knot to secure the bandages around Montparnasse’s chest was secured.   
“Fuck!”, they said, starring into the dark before turning around to face Montparnasse once again. “You have to go. He cannot find you here! If he discovers that I- Go, for fuck’s sake, GO!”  
Frantically, they threw Montparnasse’s clothes into his harms and pushed him in the direction of the window he had entered from.   
It was a sharp snap when the glass pane closed inside its frame and Montparnasse was shut out from the warm air inside the house and instead damned to staying outside, on a wall in the cold, completely topless.   
This was not how he had imagined the night to go.   
Montparnasse waited a few minutes, ducked behind the tall leaves of the plants peaking over the wall, getting back into his clothes with as little movement as possible, before he slowly climbed down to the ground.   
He had not been discovered. At least not by anyone opposed to his break in, if he interpreted the graceful and kind care, he had been subjected to after the brutal attack with a goddamn _sword_. What was wrong with them, anyway?  
Who attacked a stranger with a sword as if they were a musketeer gone rogue?   
Even with his clothes on, Montparnasse was shivering on his way home. He had cooled down from the near feverish heat which had plagues him inside the house and the sweat clinging to his skin only made matters worse.   
Montparnasse was sneezing by the time he arrived home. Shivering, he crawled under his blankets and pulled his knees to his chest in a desperate attempt to keep the heat close.   
Was he going to die?   
As he was slowly drifting to sleep, only half conscious, Montparnasse had never felt more alive.   
When he woke up the next morning, opening the shop, several of his customers made notice of his good mood. Éponine threw a pillow at him as soon as he stepped into the Thénardier’s quarters, commenting that _people in good mood were not allowed in these premises until further notice_.   
Both Montparnasse and Gavroche got kicked out. Azelma was nowhere to be seen. Montparnasse made a mental note to ask about her the next time he would drop by, but he was already glad he did not have to cross paths with Thénardier himself. Ever since they had settled down in the town, he would try to wrap Montparnasse up in some other shady tricks and dealings, even offering him fifty percent of their huntings. Montparnasse had accepted, but he took great care in evading Thénardier as often as possible. The less he had to deal with the man, the better.   


*** 

“It’s looking good so far,” Gavroche said, as Montparnasse cut through another piece of fabric. It was to become the collar of Éponine’s vest. “But why does it take so long?”  
“Good work takes time, Gavroche,” Montparnasse mumbled, careful not to hurt himself on the pins he was holding between his teeth. No matter how long he did this and how much he honed his craft, Montparnasse could not build up the reflex to use a pin cushion for his needles. No one had gotten hurt so far, but it surely was only a matter of time until he came to regret his recklessness in this matter.   
“That’s stupid, though. So many people need good clothes. It should not take so long.”  
“No one is keeping you from wrapping yourself in a big square of fabric and calling it fashion.”  
Even though he didn’t say so, Montparnasse had to admit that Gavroche had a point. It was a pain in the ass to sew stitches and it was unbelievable how long it took. Back in Paris, Montparnasse had heard about a machine invented by an Englishman, which could do the same work as a professional stitcher in a fraction of the time. That would be a useful tool to have. He would bet his life that the machine was incredibly expensive, and he would never be able to afford it though. That’s how nice things always were.   
“So, what about my clothes?”, Gavroche asked.   
“Don’t even think about it.”  
Montparnasse would not hear the end of the boy’s complaining until the end of the day.

*** 

Montparnasse had learned from his mistake. When he stalked out the house, waiting for the old man with his cane to leave again, he took great care in wearing gloves, a thick woollen coat, and a scarf. He hid the shadows, waiting for what seemed an eternity. After all the lights had gone out and more than an hour had passed, he decided it was time to head home. He would not get a chance to visit the house form the inside, not this night.   
The following night, he waited, restlessly, hiding in the dark. Once more, his patience was in vain.   
Nearly a week passed before the entrance door creaked after dark and the man left the house. Montparnasse waited a few minutes, to make sure he would not come back, before he began climbing the wall. When he reached the window, it was locked. No matter the force and weight he used to lever it open, it remained closed. Montparnasse was stunned. He had not expected any resistance to entering the house.   
“Psst, over here,” a voice called. A voice Montparnasse knew.   
The same figure which had threatened him with a rapier was standing on a balcony, visibly only wearing a nightgown. They must be freezing in the icy night air.   
With wide movements, they gestured for Montparnasse to come closer. Sighing, he complied.   
Montparnasse was grateful for his gloves. They made it harder to get a good grip on the ledges of the house’s outside walls, but at least they kept his fingers from growing stiff, which was the last thing he needed as he was slowly pulling himself forward, hanging by nothing more than his fingertips while the rest of his body was dragging him down into several metres of free fall. Only a big longer, then he could let himself fall onto the balcony.   
Excitement spiked through Montparnasse’s veins when he let his fingers lose their grip and fell. The balcony was hard and cold under his feet and he could barely catch his fall.   
His attacker from the previous night was standing over him, a soft smile on their lips. This time, their hair was open and fanned behind their head like a silky curtain.   
“You’re back,” they said.   
“You’ve waited for me,” Montparnasse answered.   
“Of course.”  
“Why?”  
Their smile grew bigger.   
“I was bored.”  
Montparnasse smiled in return. As he stood up, they looked each other in the eyes. The other one was taller than he remembered. They had seemed small, almost fragile when they had applied his bandages. Which, if Montparnasse was being honest, was one of the more stupid attributions he had ever made, considering it was _their_ fault he had needed bandages in the first place.   
This night, their hands were noticeably empty.   
“No sword tonight?”, Montparnasse asked, grinning mischievously.   
“I thought it wiser not to risk your physical integrity _again_.”  
“How kind of you.”  
“I try to be.”   
Had Montparnasse not known about their skill with the blade, their soft smile might have lured him into a false sense of security, as one might feel when holding a beautiful flower, bending down to kiss its petals, unaware of the poison contained in its sap.  
The cold was seeking its way to Montparnasse’s bones.   
“Go inside. You must be cold,” the said and tipped the balcony door open slightly. The warm light moving on the furniture and decorations inside the room told Montparnasse a warm fire would welcome him.   
“And you are not?”, he asked, pointing at his hosts thing clothes, barely more than a breeze in the wind compared to nature’s forces in winter.   
“Not enough yet.” They smiled again.   
“Don’t mind me, then.” Montparnasse urged to get inside. At last, his patience had been rewarded and he would not freeze to near death waiting again. It had all been worth it.   
A fire was burning inside the earth. It’s warmth and heat were calling to Montparnasse the moment he stepped inside the room, closing the balcony door behind him. With a slight head jerk and a sly grin on his lips, he tried to make them join him. They smiled, a mystery wrapped in a daydream, and stayed outside.   
Montparnasse let himself fall onto a sofa, expensive, dark, perfectly positioned in front of the fire to thaw his frozen bones. The wind was rattling on the windows, trying to pry them open, but Montparnasse was safe and secure. His eyes fell closed and he let himself be lulled to something similar to sleep by the calm and quiet around him.

The cold of Death prayed its hands around his throat. 

Montparnasse jerked up but was pressed back into the furniture. His neck hurt where the arch of the armrest pressed against his spine.   
They were standing above him, terrifyingly beautiful.  
“Are you cold enough now?”, Montparnasse asked. Shivers and goose bumps were running over his body the longer their icy fingers rested over his skin.   
“Would you like me to be even colder?”, they asked. Their hair, hanging over Montparnasse like a curtain of doom, tickled his cheekbones and neck whenever it brushed against his skin. Their cold hands were still laying on his chest, a few fingers had found their way beneath his shirt, thumbs crossing over his trachea. Their touch was as light as a feather but with the slightest bit of pressure, Montparnasse would find himself trashing, gasping for air.   
It was enthralling.   
“What is your name?”  
“Isn’t it more polite to introduce oneself first before asking the other for anything?”   
Montparnasse’s jaw muscles were beginning to cramp. For nothing in the world would he have wanted for their touch to end.   
“Montparnasse.”  
“Is that all?”  
He swallowed. Their hands followed the movement.   
“Raphaël Montparnasse.”  
“Nice to meet you, Raphaël Montparnasse. I’m Jehan Prouvaire.”  
As they spoke, their fingertips lifted from Montparnasse’s chest and began a path of exploration up to his face.   
“Do you always invite strangers into your house in the middle of the night?”  
Their fingers gripped Montparnasse’s chin tightly and kept his head in place as they brought their face closer. He could feel their breath ghosting over his skin, eyelashes, lips.   
If they retreated now, Montparnasse was sure he would die.   
“Only the interesting ones.”  
Abruptly, they stood up and moved — danced — to the other end of the sofa. Their nightgown moved like water when they pushed Montparnasse’s feet away and sat down, knees drawn close to their chest.   
“Then again, we are not strangers. So, no harm done.”  
They smiled, mouth wide, resting their chin on their knees. Several of their teeth were crooked. Their left incisor was broken. For one short moment, Montparnasse wondered how this had happened. Had they fallen down the stairs when they were a child? The result of an underestimated foe in a brawl, perhaps?  
“I broke into your home,” he said, instead.   
“Well, ‘break’ is perhaps the wrong word. Nothing was damaged, except for your shirt. And I think that we both agree that this was entirely my responsibility.”  
Montparnasse hummed in agreement. There was nothing he could have said which would not have made him feel more like a cat, trapped by a mouse. A very peculiar mouse, however. Perhaps not a mouse after all.   
“So, how did you become a tailor?”, they asked. Montparnasse lifted an eyebrow. “I am curious by nature.” Their smile was apologetic, like a child which played pretend.   
Montparnasse could do no different than tell them the truth.   
“I thought expensive fabrics and the creation of beauty were more worthy of my time than carving up and carting around meat I would never get to eat.”  
“You know your way around a knife, then?”  
“Among other things.”  
The room was growing hot. The flames were telling stories over Jehan’s skin. If anyone had bothered to tell these tales in Montparnasse’s childhood, perhaps he would have listened instead of escaping to the streets at first notice.   
“Where did you learn to fence?”, he asked in return. A sword was resting atop the fireplace, fixed to a dark wooden plate. Montparnasse was quite sure it had already tasted his blood a few nights prior.   
“The inevitable result of an early infatuation with Aramis,” they admitted. “My father resisted for several weeks before giving in to my pleads.”  
“Will he interrupt us again tonight?”  
Jehan laughed. It was as clear as a summer spring and as deep as the stars in the nightsky.   
“No. It took all my persuasive skills, but I have convinced him no trouble will befall me tonight. He will be gone until long in the morning. We have all the time we desire.”  
Montparnasse smiled. 

Jehan was right. The sun was already rising and the first houses opening their window shutters when Montparnasse could finally pry himself away from them and climbed back from the balcony.   
“When will I be able to visit you again?”, he asked, feigning a whisper, crouched atop the garden wall.   
“Soon. Do not fall ill waiting for me in the cold, tailor. I will send message when I know more.”  
Before Montparnasse could get down from the wall, Jehan had already disappeared inside.


	7. It is a strange feeling to watch other People suffer instead of Oneself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse gets to know Jehan better. Mystery takes hold of the small town. Éponine makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
>  **WARNING:** Éponine gets misgendered in this chapter. It is one scene of multiple paragraphs. If you do not want to read this, there is a link before the scene in question which will enable you to skip it. There is a summary of what exactly happened in the scene in the author's note at the very end of this chapter, which you will also be able to jump to. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter. Leave a kudo and/or a comment if you do!

“You are strangely happy today. Who died?”, Gavroche asked. He was sitting on the counter, legs swinging merely back and forth, while he watched Montparnasse sew a button onto the vest which would soon become Éponine’s. It was the last piece, everything else was already done. In a few days, the outfit would be finished.  
“No one,” Montparnasse answered, without looking Gavroche in the eye. It was the truth, but he knew this was not what the young Thénardier boy had truly asked.  
“What are you hiding, Montparnasse?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
Before Gavroche could dig his inquiry deeper, a knock on the door interrupted him. Gavroche jumped down from the table and ran to open.  
“Come in, Ponine. We will get you patched up. Montparnasse, we need water,” he said and was already off to the kitchen. Montparnasse barely had time to hide his work so Éponine could not see it. It was to be a surprise, after all.  
“What happened to you to be so bright and sunny?”, Éponine asked, sniffling up the blood that was running out of his nose. Looking at the state of his sleeves, the bleeding had already lessened after sullying the clothes around his arm.  
Montparnasse frowned.  
“What gives you that impression?”  
“You just let Gavroche order you around.”  
“I’m not getting water for him.”  
“You didn’t threaten to murder him.”  
“Are you encouraging me to threaten your younger brother with physical violence?”, Montparnasse asked. They were both aware of Éponine’s own current physical affliction. There were scratches all over his face, his hair was suspiciously matted and flat the right side of his head, as if it had been glued to his scalp and if Montparnasse was interpreting his careful manner of sitting down correctly, he was hiding bruises under his shirt, if not a cracked rib.  
“Never.”  
Éponine winced when he sat down. Montparnasse lighted a candle to sterilize a needle and prepared a new thread. Under normal circumstances, he would have preferred the material he sews on to be unresponsive, inhuman, but stitching Éponine up was the least he could do. He was the best at his craft, after all, and he did not want to look at the result if Éponine himself, or even Gavroche, had to close the more serious wounds.  
Éponine stopped him before he could hold the needle itself into the open flame.  
“No. Not today.”  
Montparnasse gave Éponine a second once over and ultimately decided to listen to him. No one knew his body better than himself, and if Éponine did not deem his help necessary, he would not pressure him to accept it.  
“You should stay here tonight,” Montparnasse said instead.  
Éponine shook his head, as he had done dozen times, if not hundred times before.  
“Azelma,” he simply said, with a tone of finality, which it would never be. This was a game they had played ever since they took up residence in the small town, and there was no end for it in sigh either.  
When Gavroche came back, carrying a bucket full of water which was nearly the size of his own torso, Montparnasse and Éponine turn silent. Gavroche was not naïve and all the time he spent pestering Montparnasse at the shop was time he did not have to spent at the Thénardier-Inn. Montparnasse sometimes wondered if the boy ever returned home these days and if not, where he slept. He knew that if he were to ask Gavroche the question outright, the only answer he would get was a snappish remark, so no help at all.  
Montparnasse did not ask.  
Silence filled the room while Gavroche was occupied cleaning the dirt and blood from his brother’s face.  
“Did you hear about the shoemaker’s daughter?”, Gavroche asked after a few minutes. The water falling back into the bucket in large drops while he wrung out the cloth was loud as a hammer falling onto an anvil.  
“No, why?”, Éponine indulged him. All his attention had instantly shifted onto Gavroche, his words, his voice, anything distracting him from the injuries he had carried into Montparnasse’s home.  
“He has been looking for her for the last two days. No one has seen her.”  
Éponine shot Montparnasse a questioning, judging look. He shrugged and shook his head. He had nothing to do with this. He did not even know what the shoemaker or his daughter looked like. If Thénardier had orchestrated something, he had done so without initiating Montparnasse.  
“Someone said the _bête de Gevaudan_ is back,” Gavroche continued. The name tickled something in the far back of Montparnasse’s memories, but not enough to bring them forward. “Do you think Werewolves are immortals?”  
“Why do you ask?”  
“Well, if it truly were the beast, it would have to be over 80 years old, right?”, Gavroche explains.  
“Maybe it’s not the beast itself, but its children.”  
“Good idea, but too boring. Don’t move.” Éponine had winced when Gavroche had rubbed over his upper lip to remove the dark blood which had dried there. “Don’t lose anymore teeth, Éponine. I like your teeth.”  
Montparnasse decided to indulge Gavroche in his little game.  
“Maybe the ghost of Marie-Antoinette has returned and is abducting young women in a desperate attempt to get back her former beauty.”  
Montparnasse had never seen a picture of the former queen. But he remembered the story the woman in Madame Brilal’s shop had told him. The dress in the window had once been beautiful as well.  
“Much better! You see, Ponine, Montparnasse gets it.”  
“Uhm, well, maybe… she ran away to become a pirate and win her freedom on the high seas,” Éponine stuttered, trying not to get Gavroche’s now dirty rag in his mouth while doing so.  
“Oh, an epic quest for liberty. I like it!”  
“Maybe she was brutally killed and is now flowing in the river somewhere, gorged full of water and ready to sink at any moment,” Montparnasse interjected.  
“Ugh, Parnasse!”  
“Why do you have to ruin everything?”  
Gavroche and Éponine shouted over each other, both their faces distorted by disgust.  
“What? It’s as good a theory as any other.”  
_It’s also the most realistic._  
There are few things Montparnasse feared in life, but he knew there were things much darker than him laying low in the shadows. Things no normal person could escape from.  
He knew it was unlikely for the shoemaker to ever hold his daughter’s body in his arms again. At most, it would be her corpse.  
He did not tell Éponine and Gavroche this. He suspected they had already thought the same thing.

***

The sun was slowly fighting its way through the clouds. The cold would glisten under its light. It was time for Éponine to receive the gift Montparnasse had promised him.  
For now, snow was falling in thick, dense flakes around him. It took all of Montparnasse’s composure not to curl over and hide himself inside his coat to escape the cold. He only allowed himself to stuff his gloved hands inside his pockets. He had to keep up appearances, after all. Even if it was the illusion that his clothes could hold off this icy hell which had taken home over the town.  
Montparnasse was sure the temperatures had never been this low in Paris.  
Heavy footsteps came in his direction. They crunched in the snow which had already laid down on the stone pavement. It was difficult to see in the heavy snowfall whom Montparnasse was crossing paths with.  
They were nearly face to face when Montparnasse recognised Jehan walking on the arm of the older man with the beard and the cane — their father, if Montparnasse had understood correctly.  
Jehan’s eyes opened wide with a spark of genuine joy when they recognised Montparnasse. They smiled and nodded but did not interrupt whatever they had been talking about. Montparnasse could feel the shadow of their movement as they slipped something into his pockets. In another life, maybe they would have been able to pickpocket him.  
But this was not another life and their mysterious gift warmed Montparnasse’s thought until stepped foot into Thénardier’s Inn.  
“Éponine’s upstairs,” the older man told him as soon as he saw him. “Come by tonight, I have something I need to talk to you about.”  
Montparnasse nodded and hurried up the stairs. He would gladly embrace every chance to push a possible conversation to the future, no matter how close.  
Éponine and Azelma were sitting on their bed, a book open between them, when Montparnasse stepped into the room. He did not beat around the bush.  
“Come with me. Your present is finished.”  
The two siblings shared a quick glance. Azelma looked as if she had no idea what he was talking about whereas Éponine seemed caught in disbelief. Had he truly not told his sister about the promise Montparnasse had made him?  
“What are you waiting for? You’ve already been waiting long enough; I cannot believe you’d rather stand frozen in place instead of seeing the result immediately.”  
The doorknob dug into Montparnasse’s back as he stood against the door to hold it open. The two oldest Thénardier children nearly knocked him aside when they rushed out of the room. The book was left untouched on the sheets.

“What present? What did you make him, Montparnasse? Why didn’t you tell me he had promised you a present, Éponine?” As soon as they left the house, Azelma did not stop talking, did not stop asking question. Her eyes frowned suspiciously.  
“Did you tell Gavroche but not me?”  
“Gavroche happened to be there when Montparnasse made his promise. If you- came with me more often, maybe you’d have been there too.”  
Montparnasse could hear how he had to force himself to swallow the _ran-away_ and regurgitate a nicer, softer expression. Azelma had never sought refuge at Montparnasse’s whenever Éponine clashed with Thénardier. Did she know? She had to. No one could live in the Thénardier’s house and not notice what kind of people they were. Montparnasse wondered whether she was hiding similar bruises under her clothes; or had Éponine taken the brute of the force for his sister?  
Montparnasse did not ask. This was to be a light spirited visit. It would not do to ruin the atmosphere by asking questions they would not answer.  
Gavroche was sitting on the counter when they stepped into the shop. He had wrapped himself into a warm brown wool fabric. Montparnasse already hated the thought of having to roll it up again at the mere sight of it. Instead of telling Gavroche so, he asked:  
“How did you get in here?”  
“First floor window. It was open.”  
Montparnasse knew he had closed all the entrances to the house before leaving. He could not afford to let the heat escape his home and he knew very well how easy it was to climb up a wall to gain access through the more elevated entrances of a building.  
“Oh, Azelma, you’re here as well!”, Gavroche exclaimed and rushed to his sister, wrapping her into his arms. It was a comical sight. Azelma was tall, nearly as tall as Montparnasse himself, and Gavroche barely reached her chest. She seemed absolutely overwhelmed with the armful of human boy she suddenly found herself with.  
How much time had passed since they had last seen each other? Montparnasse had not the faintest idea how often Gavroche deigned to visit the Thénardier household, if he ever did.  
Azelma’s reaction inclined him to believe the latter was more likely.  
“Goddamnit, Gavroche, one day Montparnasse will kill you because you pull shit like this,” Éponine scolded his brother as he lifted him out of his sister’s arms and sat him down on the counter again.  
“What are we all here for today?”, Gavroche asked.  
“ _We_ will all get to see you burn up with envy because I made Éponine the fancy outfit you have always pestered me to tailor for you,” Montparnasse asked, while he was dragging Éponine to one of the coves, hidden by paravents, customers normally used to change into their new attires. “You wait here,” he ordered him and quickly dashed into his storage room. He had played with the idea of presenting the clothes — some of his finest work, if Montparnasse was being honest — on a mannequin, but he would have hated to ruin the surprise. A stack of clothes in his arms and a pair of shoes he had borrowed for an indefinite amount of time from one of the finer houses in town, he returned to the cabin. He could feel Azelma and Gavroche’s gaze burning into his back, curious, but not daring enough to step closer.  
“Here are your clothes. If you need help to put anything on, just call. Oh, and… I would not bind your chest with these if I were you. It shouldn’t be necessary.”  
Montparnasse had vivid memories of the day he had taken Éponine’s measurements. The red welts on his skin and the pain the bandages around his chest must have caused were still prominent in his mind.  
Éponine nodded silently, too stunned to say a word. He did not seem to truly register the weight of the clothes Montparnasse had put into his arms.  
“Good. Off you go, then!” Pulling the paravent close behind Éponine so he could change in peace, Montparnasse turned around to face Azelma and Gavroche once more. They were looking at him with big eyes, the former more so than the latter.  
“What is this? What did you do, Montparnasse?”, she asked.  
“Your brother deserves some new clothes. I got him some.”  
“But why?”  
“Because I could.”  
“Montparnasse, I am not sure you understand. You _made_ Éponine an entire outfit. Exclusively for him.” Azelma punctured her phrase by cutting through the air with straight palms while she spoke. Her eyes slanted suspiciously.  
“Are you in love with my brother, Montparnasse?”, she asked.  
For one short moment, he wondered whether Azelma had read one too many novels of the type her mother seemed so fond of.  
“No.”  
“Then why did you do that?”  
“People are allowed to do nice things for each other, Azelma.”  
“Yes, but why? Clothes are expensive, the amount of _time_ and _work_ you’ve put into this-“  
“I’m done,” Éponine’s voice cut her off.  
Throwing Azelma one last, poignant glance, Montparnasse turned the biggest mirror in the shop towards the changing cabin.  
“Come out and let’s see how you look.”  
The outfit would look amazing on Éponine, Montparnasse knew. He simply hoped he would recognise so himself. The heavy paravents feet scrapped over the wooden floor when Éponine pushed it to the side.  
Gavroche and Azelma stayed completely silent. So did Éponine.  
“It looks great on you,” Montparnasse broke the silence.  
The sharp shoulder lines gave Éponine the appearance of broad shoulders, which he already had, especially now that he was standing straight and were only strengthened by the slight pads Montparnasse had incorporated. He had chosen a black, woollen fabric for the coat, in opposition to the jacquard-cream, stiffed waistcoat, the white shirt with slight ruffles at the collar and the sky-blue cravat. It was clear to see that this was not something Éponine was used to. He was paying no attention to the mirror, to his own reflection. Instead, he was utterly enthralled by the clothes he was wearing, sweeping his hands over the fabric, fiddling with the buttons.  
“It’s so… soft. And warm. And nothing itches,” he whispered. Montparnasse was the only one close enough to hear him.  
“Damn, Ponine, you look really elegant!”, Gavroche shouted. If even the youngest Thénardier had needed a few moments to take what he was seeing, Montparnasse had done a mighty good job. A great one, even.  
“Like a real gentleman. Now you’ll be able to snatch all of Montparnasse’s conquests from right under his nose.”  
Éponine finally turned to the mirror. Immediately, he stood even straighter. If Montparnasse was not mistaken, he even puffed out his chest a big, like a bird in a mating dance, trying to impress everyone else but mostly himself.  
“Whoever choses to accept Montparnasse’s advances has already proven to lack ambition. I would never associate myself with them, thank you very much.”  
It hurt slightly as a button landed on the back of Montparnasse’s head, as if to drive Éponine’s jab even deeper.  
“Yes, you’re probably right. After all, we are all aware of his dreadful taste in companions” Azelma warbled. For one short moment, Montparnasse wished she had been sitting on the counter in Gavroche’s stead, simply so he could push her off it in retaliation. What did she know about his companions anyway? It was not as if she was around much. It was good to know that Éponine gossiped to his sister about Montparnasse’s endeavours behind his back.  
“Hey. The cold is waiting right outside if you continue to be so ungrateful about my hospitability,” Montparnasse warned, without taking his eyes of Éponine, who was still examining himself in the mirror.  
“But honestly, Ponine, you could go into one of these fancier cafés or restaurants around the market-place and every single lady would leave their companion alone to gain your interest. You look like a real gentleman!”  
“And damn approachable too, if I might say so myself,” Montparnasse grinned.  
Another button landed on the back of his head. He really hoped that Gavroche’s stack would soon run empty.  
“Stop flirting with my brother, Parnasse! He deserves better than a scoundrel like you!”  
“He does.”  
“I really do,” Azelma and Éponine agreed. The dreaming look had come back as he was starring into the mirror, the same Montparnasse had observed when he had asked what colours Éponine would like for the clothes. He ought to ask him about it.  
“Very well. Let’s go then.”  
The three siblings turned to him. The lack of understanding was written on their faces, clear as day.  
“Go where?”, Éponine asked.  
“Out. To one of these cafés Azelma just talked about. You have everything you need now. It’s time you learn to appreciate the more luxurious things in life.”  
Montparnasse had hung his coat over the back of a chair. With a flourish, he swung it around his shoulders to slip his arms into the sleeves.  
“What, now?”, Éponine asked.  
“Of course. When else if not now?”  
“Well, yes, but…” Éponine did not finish his sentence. His eyes jumped from Montparnasse to the mirror and back again, occasionally looking at Azelma and Gavroche for help they could not give him, for they were as much at loss with the situation, if not more.  
“Don’t break anything while we’re gone, you two.” Montparnasse gave Azelma and Gavroche a stern look. He knew nothing he said would make them obey if they did not feel like it, especially Gavroche, but it did not hurt to try. They also seemed far too enraptured by their brother’s new appearance to try anything that could harm Montparnasse or his home.  
“I will lock the door. Gavroche, I trust you to leave with Azelma the exact same way you came in.”  
Gavroche nodded.  
“Very well. On we go then.”  
With an exaggerated flourish, Montparnasse opened the door. A gush of cold air swept into the shop and gave him chills. Hat and gloves on, he let Éponine go first. It was time to start the oldest Thénardier’s new life, and if Montparnasse was not wrong, it was the beginning of something great.

***

Montparnasse crumbled onto his sofa, Éponine stumbled right next to him. Maybe they had slightly exaggerated at the café. A woman, Montparnasse did not know her name, though he knew she had once bought a dress from him, had asked him to dance. He had not been in the mood, so he had offered Éponine as her dancing partner, and here they were, at his house, alone, without a single ounce of energy left in his body, after indulging too many people in too many requests.  
Montparnasse’s fingers played with the handkerchief Jehan had slipped into his pocket when they had crossed paths. He would return it to them when they next saw each other, but so far, he had heard no word of when this would be possible.  
The embers of the fire were still emanating a slight glow. If Montparnasse threw another log on top, it would not take long for the fire to take flame again.  
“Montparnasse?”, mumbled Éponine. The words were slightly slurred and muffled by Montparnasse’s shirtsleeves he was pressing his face into. Éponine did not appear to take as well to wine as he had anticipated.  
“Hm?”  
“Tonight, was… The Café… Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
Éponine’s breath and skin was warm, even through the fabric of his clothes. The cream waistcoat and the matching embroidery shimmered like gold in the warm and faint light emanating from the fireplace. Now was a good time as ever for Montparnasse to satisfy his curiosity.  
“Éponine?”  
“What?”  
“Why these colours?”  
“Whad’ya mean?”  
“I had never taken you for a light sky-blue kind of person. Why those? What makes them special?”  
“Does it have to be special? Can’t they just be pretty?”  
“So there isn’t anything special about them?”  
“No- I mean… It reminds me of someone…” A hiccup lifted Éponine’s entire body before it sacked down into the couch once again.  
“Who?” Montparnasse asked.  
“When I was little, Gavroche wasn’t even born yet, there was another girl living with us. I think her mother paid so we took care of her because she couldn’t. We called her- zucchini? sock? I don’t remember. It wasn’t her real name anyway. That was something very fancy in one way or another. She always talked about how pretty the sky looked on spring days and her favourite dolls where the ones with blue dresses and light golden hair.”  
“What happened to her?”  
“Someone adopted her. I don’t remember. I hope he finally treats her like she deserves.”  
“Why finally?”  
“I wasn’t nice to her, Montparnasse. She must have hated to live with us.”  
“So, she was not like a sister?”  
Éponine laughed, dry and short, as if the mere thought were utterly ridiculous.  
“No. She could never have been my sister. My parents treated her like a servant, and I was jealous enough to follow their example.”  
“She does not appear a person worth being jealous of.”  
“Her mother wrote her regular letters. Every month at least, when she sent the money. My mother never showed them to her. I sometimes snuck into their room to read them in secret.” Éponine audibly breathed out. In a better light, Montparnasse would have seen how his eyes had begun to glisten with tears. “She always began every letter telling her how much she loved her, how she could not wait to see her again, when she had enough money to support both of them. Of course, that would never happen. The letters grew thinner, you know, I guess she didn’t have enough money anymore to send heavy letters. She simply wrote smaller and smaller. Before that man adopted her, I had trouble reading the letters, they were nearly illegible because she used up every single bit of space on the paper, wrote double sided…” Éponine sniffed. Montparnassed stayed silent, and did not move. “Sometimes, I would imagine it was my mother writing me these letters, telling me how much she loved me, how I was the best thing that had ever happened to her. When that man came to get her, he paid my parents so they would let her go. Do you know how much he paid them?”  
Montparnasse did not answer the question. This was not the time for guessing games.  
“1500 Francs. He paid _one thousand five hundred_ Francs to be allowed to raise her! My parents would only pay someone if it meant they never had to see me again. Wouldn’t be the first time.  
And as soon as he had paid, he simply lifted her up as if she weighted nothing and carried her out. She was so _small_ in his arms, Parnasse. I have treated a _child_ like this.”  
“Do you think she is happy now?”  
It was time to get Éponine back to brighter thoughts. If he continued to bury even deeper in his past, Montparnasse did not know if he were able to dig himself out of it again.  
“I hope so. The man seemed nice. Warm, in some way.”  
“Speaking of warmth, let me get up, so I can stoke the fire.” The cold had begun to drag its fingers into Montparnasse’s flesh. If he did not ressuscitate the flames now, he would have to start it all anew.  
Éponine grunted as he let go of Montparnasse’s arm and turned around so he could stand up. Seeing him in his new clothes, knees drawn to his chest in the middle of heavy sofa, Montparnasse could imagine all too clearly how small the girl living with the Thénardiers had looked.  
“You’re ready to stay here tonight?”, Montparnasse asked. The heat of the flames was drying his skin, but it was a nice feeling.  
Éponine grunted in approval.

***

Winter had fully taken hold of the town and taken it within its bony claws, but this did not stop Montparnasse’s customers from making the trip to his shop. He had somehow the impression that after the first ice flowers had begun decorating the windows, even more people came to him with requests for coats, multi-layered skirts, boots and everything necessary to withstand the cold. Montparnasse was even happy to oblige to some of the more eccentric wishes if they were able and willing to pay. And if he raised the prises in comparison to what he would have requested previously, no one was allowed to question it. Everyone could enter the store and leave it emptyhanded, after all.  
Montparnasse was kneeling at a woman’s feet. She had hiked up the skirt of the dress he was fitting her for when he had begun to kneel to fix the hem, which was completely unnecessary. Why did people like her insist on making his life harder? She could play her games at home with her husbands, even though Montparnasse suspected that the man’s likely unwillingness to indulge her was the very reason why he had to suffer such disvalue of his profession.  
“Please lower the skirt, Madame. I need it to fall freely for a satisfactory result,” he instructed her. She huffed and sighed but complied. Montparnasse pinned the fabric at the appropriate length in silent. He could feel the woman practically vibrating with the urge to talk, to communicate, but he was not inclined to indulge her.  
She was his last customer for the day. Everyone else who needed his help would have to wait until tomorrow. While she changed into her own clothes, Montparnasse began tidying up the counter. Maybe Éponine would come by and they would go out together again. It had been great fun, but he had left his new clothes at Montparnasse’s.  
_We both know neither I nor these clothes are safe from my parents if they found them._  
So now the clothes were waiting in Montparnasse’s wardrobe, waiting to be used again for the purpose they had been created for.  
“Oh, you know the Inspector’s child!”, the woman’s high voice pulled Montparnasse from his reverie.  
“Pardon?”  
“Well, this handkerchief.” She pointed to the gift Jehan had left him. Montparnasse kept it on his side of the counter. He had not thought anyone would notice it. “Jehan Prouvaire. That is the name Inspector Javert’s only child.”  
Montparnasse threw a glance at the delicate embroidery on the edge of the fabric, proclaiming its rightful owner for all the world to see.  
“Ah, yes. I was wondering who that was. Javert, you say?”  
The man was part of the police then. Montparnasse had been lucky that Jehan had practically thrown him out of the house before their father could find him, even if it had meant standing in the cold with only half his clothes on.  
“Yes. You should give it back.” She smiled mischievously. Montparnasse returned the expression.  
“That was what I had always intended to do. And now that I know where to find the owner, I can finally follow through.”  
“How utterly gentleman-like of you, Monsieur. Well then, when can I pick up the finished dress?”  
The woman was right. Jehan had told Montparnasse they would reach out to him when their father would be out of the house again. But it had been several weeks now, and he had heard or read nothing of their part.  
Thankfully, he now had the best of excuses to visit the Prouvaire house again. And this time, he intended on being invited inside by the dear Inspector himself.

***

While he had been spying on the house, Montparnasse had never paid any particular attention to the entrance door as he had never accounted it to be a possible way of entry. Now that he was standing in front of it and waiting for someone to answer to his knocks, he noticed small details he had never thought about before. The left side of the wooden frame was noticeably lighter as it was less protected by the shadow. The handle as well was used, the cooper darkened with grime from too many hands too often touching it.  
Montparnasse’s heart stayed still for one beat when Jehan suddenly opened the dear.  
“He- Hello,” they said softly.  
If he was being honest, Montparnasse, for all the clever planning and thinking he prided himself for, had not thought about what would actually happen when he officially knocked on Jehan’s door and someone would open. He had not even thought about who would open, what he would say if it was Javert himself.  
“Hello,” he muttered. Then he remembered the Handkerchief in his pocket. He had washed and ironed it, so it locked brand new. “Your handkerchief. You… dropped it and I thought wise to return it.”  
He handed the piece over nervously, or at least would have if Montparnasse was not well aware that he did not experience this emotion, thank you very much, especially not in front of someone who had cut him open with a sword in the literal sense of the expression and then bandaged the wound as if nothing had happened.  
Jehan smiled and it was the most beautiful sight Montparnasse had ever witnessed.  
“How kind of you. I had already begun to fear I would never see it again. Please, do come in.”  
It had apparently only needed such little time apart for Montparnasse to forget how open, how forceful in their advances Jehan could be. He would never had invited a stranger into his home for the mere task of bringing back a handkerchief. But he was not one to complain.  
Jehan closed the door quietly behind Montparnasse.  
“Follow me. We can talk better in the kitchen.”  
He had never had the opportunity to see them in their daytime clothes before. The short crossover they had had, had been but a fleeting moment and Montparnasse had been too distracted by Jehan’s hand in his pocket to pay any closer attention to their attire, which was unusual for him to say the least. They wore a dress, finely made and a waistcoat with jacket on top. Their hair was loosely braided and swung softly in the rhythm of their steps. Truly a sight to behold.  
A man stepped out of a door on the righthand side and barely escaped to collide with Jehan. Not simply _a_ man. The one Montparnasse had waited for numerous times to leave the house. The inspector. Javert.  
“We have another victim; the organiser of the Market at Place Saint-Jean disappeared.” Javert sighed. Only then did his gaze fall onto Montparnasse. He pinned him in place as if he were a rare moth to be examined for scientific purposes.  
“I did not know we had a guest.”  
“He was so kind to return the handkerchief I lost on one of our promenades. You remember the one I complained about, don’t you, papa?”  
Jehan’s voice was calm and self-assured, as if he had done this a hundred times already. Maybe he had. Montparnasse knew precious little about them, after all and they had managed to surprise him every time they met so far.  
Javert did not know who he was. He did not know Montparnasse had broken into his house or that his child had cut him open from shoulder to ribs. Montparnasse was here out of no reason other than well-mannered decency. He had nothing to fear.  
“How did you know where to find us?”, Javert asked.  
“One of my customers told me the handkerchief belonged to Inspector Javert’s child, Monsieur.”  
“Customer?”  
“I am a tailor, Monsieur.”  
“Hm.” Javert’s eyes drilled into Montparnasse as if he wanted to see his insides laid out bare before him, until no secret could be hidden anymore. His entire demeanour changed when he let his shoulders slump and pulled Jehan closer to him. No danger had been detected. They were all safe.  
“Well, thank you for returning it. This is great effort you took upon yourself for such a small object. May we offer you some tea?”  
Together, they walked into the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Jehan threw quick glances over their shoulder to Montparnasse while they were preparing tea. Javert was busying himself by preparing a plate of biscuits and small snacks they could eat with their drinks. Montparnasse did not know what to do and was left switching his weight from one foot to the other as unsuspiciously as possible.

Montparnasse did not know how well the job of an inspector paid. Javert had his own house, and the money seemed enough to enable him to raise a child alone. Nonetheless, Montparnasse was surprised at how quaint everything was, not that he had the opportunity to inspect it in daylight, without succumbing to Jehan’s attention.  
The kitchen was neither excessively small nor incredibly big. It was not rusty or old, nor shining and new, but clean and obviously well love and well used. Javert had an office, if Montparnasse’s deduction as to the room he had excited when they had met were correct, and from the little things he had seen on the first floor where his meetings with Jehan had taken place — the sofa, the sword, the blazing fireplace, the luscious plants outside — they did not lack in anything. Still, the home was a far cry from some households he had visited in Paris. No excessive displays of wealth, of fortune, no walls upon walls of shelves filled with books no one would ever have the time to read.  
Javert took one of the three mugs Jehan had prepared and filled with tea. It was somewhat brute in its form, made from clay, likely by hand.  
“It was nice meeting you, Monsieur…”  
“Montparnasse.  
“-Monsieur Montparnasse. Thank you for taking the time. I unfortunately cannot keep you company, as work keeps me busy, but please enjoy your time here. Jehan, I trust you to take care of our guest.”  
With a courteous nod, Javert left the room. The last Montparnasse saw of him was how he bit into a biscuit and a few crumbles caught in his beard. Maybe the Inspector was more approachable than Montparnasse had originally anticipated.  
“Well, that was quite adventurous of you, knocking at our door like this.”  
Jehan took great care assembling the fabric of their skirt before sitting town opposite Montparnasse, cradling their mug in their hand. They pushed the last one over to Montparnasse’s side of the table.  
“What do you mean?”, he asked, as he hung his coat over the back of the chair and sat down. “I am merely here to return a handkerchief to you. As the rules of good behaviour dictate when one finds such an object.”  
“And I appreciate it greatly, like my father said.”  
“Hm,” Montparnasse hummed and took a sip of his tea. It warmed him from the inside, and he wanted to never let go. “I did not know your father was an inspector.”  
“Oh, not just an inspector. The inspector. Would you have preferred me to tell you before he stepped out of his office? So you could mentally prepare yourself for the meeting?”  
Before Montparnasse could answer, they added: “For all that my word is worth, I think you handled it spectacularly. Your nervousness was very endearing and trust me, everyone would lack a bit of confidence when unexpectedly confronted by my father. He is used to it by now.”  
“I was not nervous.”  
“Of course you weren’t. But don’t fret about it. He greatly enjoys seeing _youngsters_ shake in their boots. At least before they notice what a big sap he is; which you did not hear from me if he asks you about it.”  
“So, am I allowed to visit you in daylight more often now?”  
Jehan took a biscuit between two fingers and examined it instead of looking at Montparnasse.  
“You can. But you shouldn’t”  
Montparnasse lifted an eyebrow in question.  
“It’s a lot less fun,” they answered and bit down into the baked dough.  
“Well, I will gladly freeze off all my limbs if it means that you get your fun.”  
“Thank you. I will always honour your sacrifice.” They patted Montparnasse’s hand in playful pity. When they were done and stopped moving, they let their fingers rest on the back of his hand.  
“More tea?”, Jehan asked. They had already turned around to grab the teapot and lifted it to reserve. Montparnasse had no choice but to slide his mug forward in grateful compliance.

***

The Thérardier Inn was well lit and visible from the far end of the street when Montparnasse turned around the corner. Even this far into the night, there would be no suspicion of he frequented an established of this type.  
Montparnasse had split up from Thénardier after pulling through on one of his stunts so anyone looking for two men who had robbed them would only find one. It would raise less suspicion if either of them got searched, which was already unlikely enough. The town had other problems to deal with. Jehan had told Montparnasse during one of his more and more frequent nightly visits how the kidnappings were taking over. Some people were already forbidding their children from leaving the houses alone. Some feared they would lose several family members at once if the captor turned more daring. Montparnasse and Thénardier had agreed they would each go to their own homes, change into more appropriate attire, and meet up at the Thénardier inn. No one would be surprised to see Montparnasse there, and this way he could claim his part of the loot as quickly as possible without dragging it and Thénardier himself behind him.  
It was needlessly complicated. Back in Paris, Montparnasse would never have put this much unnecessarily complicated effort into even a single job. If anyone tried to resist, they would bleed, and that was both the end of the job and their life. Sometimes, Montparnasse wondered if he should not have accepted that first offer Thénardier had made him, that time after Gavroche had tried to rob him in the middle of the night.  
Even though Thénardier scammed all his customers and surely did not hunger from the wretched job he did as a host, regularly, every few weeks, he would catch Montparnasse on the way outside and propose him a new plan. After their small travelling companionship had arrived into town, Thénardier had first left Montparnasse alone and accomplished his business alone. From what Éponine had told him, he had not been quite as successful on his lone endeavours as he had hoped. It had only been a matter of days until he had come crawling to Montparnasse, disguising his plea for help as a business offer.  
The shop was already going well at this point. Montparnasse had not needed any money from Thénardier. He had still said yes. He had also said yes to most propositions Thénardier had made him afterwards. The longer he went on, the more he had to suffer for the man’s idiotic and inefficient plans, the more Montparnasse was toying with the idea of refusing the proposal and skip out on this side-business entirely. Even alone, he could probably ransack double the reward Thénardier and he took in and he wouldn’t even have to be content with only fifty percent of it.  
Whenever he seriously thought about doing so, either Éponine or Azelma would come into the room or Thénardier himself would remind him about them. Montparnasse hated how transparent he had become to the man after all this time they had known each other. But his time in this town was over soon, he could feel it. This was only one more step he would have to take on his claim to greatness. Now he only had to wait for the right moment to break free; or rather slip off the chains which had never been closed in the first place, simply hanging from his wrists as hideous decoration, inconvenient and uncomfortable as it might be, but decoration nonetheless.  
Even before opening the door, Montparnasse could hear that business was going well. Shouts, the sound of glass shattering and someone attempting to sing. Why could the Thénardier not be content with what they had? It was clear that they had no use for anything more, no true ambition for something greater, simply playing the charade of the hunt because it was the right thing to do. They would not have been able to use their win in its full capacity if they reached their goal, not like Montparnasse.  
Madame Thénardier saw Montparnasse the moment he stepped inside the bar room. With a violent head jerk she indicated him to go upstairs. In the same motion, she slipped a few bills from a customer at the bar into her sleeves, without any indication she would give back any change. Montparnasse wondered how much work she did on her own, hidden from her husband, how close she was too freedom. The two fit each other like gloves but surely, even she must have a faint wish to escape a brute like him.  
“Be prepared to duck when you open the door. Éponine’s got him in a foul mood,” Madame Thénardier called after him. Montparnasse thanked her with a simple handwave over his shoulder. The sooner he could get this over with, the better.  
The ruckus inside the room could be heard from the staircase itself. Thénardier had established himself a room he called his “office” but it was in truth nothing but an excuse to hide himself from problems he’d rather leave Éponine or Madam Thénardier deal with, sometimes even Azelma; scammed customers, overdrawn bills, bad food, the standard of the rooms, the list went on. No matter what it was, if it was anything slightly negative an inn-owner should deal with, Thénardier was usually nowhere to be found.

 **[Click here to skip the scene in which misgendering occurs] [Click here to get to the summary]**  
The shouts were loud. Montparnasse could discern both Thénardier’s and Éponine’s voices, but not what they were saying. Hopefully Thénardier would not try to drag him into this mess. Everyone who ever had to work with Thénardier knew that he was usually in the wrong or at least unbearable enough to stand against him out of spite, but his rage was terrifying enough to make most people bow. Especially if you were not the only person involved in the mess he had created.  
With a bad feeling weighing down his stomach, Montparnasse opened the door, stepped into the room, and closed it immediately afterwards.  
“Ah, Montparnasse! Good, you’re here! Talk some sense into this brat; she has completely lost her mind! I did not raise you to be an ungrateful little wench to your parents, to your father!”, Thénardier called out to him as soon as he saw who had entered.  
“Don’t call me that!” Éponine’s face was red with fury. Montparnasse saw how his hands were cramped, his nails likely digging into his palms to hide his fury.  
Montparnasse brows furrowed. While he had been on the edge and uncomfortable at the thought of getting involved in an argument between Thénardier and Éponine, this seemed to be something more than a simple fight; something greater. He turned to Éponine.  
“What happened?”, he asked.  
“What? Boy, don’t-“  
Before Thénardier could speak any further, Montparnasse cut him off with a simple hand movement.  
“I’m not going to help him anymore. Help you anymore. I’m quitting. I want no part of it anymore.”  
Montparnasse’s frown deepened. It was clear as glass what Éponine was talking about. Sometimes, he would join Thénardier and Montparnasse on a job, play the look out or cause a distraction; other times, he had to replace Montparnasse when he wasn’t free for a job. On those nights, Montparnasse had always made sure he would get the fifty percent normally reserved for himself. The biggest part of the money was stashed away at Montparnasse’s house, who had promised not to touch a single centime. He had not the single inkling of an idea what Éponine had done with the rest. Of course, Montparnasse had known this type of life was not made for Éponine, it could not stay this way for all eternity. Still, to hear him express this out loud, so decisively, was not something he had seen coming.  
“You see, Montparnasse! She’s clearly lost a marble! Tell her how stupid this plan is. No one will lower himself to take care of her.”  
Before Montparnasse could tell Thénardier not to give him orders, Éponine interrupted him.  
“Montparnasse is not your errand boy, delivering messages. If you want to say something, say it to me.”  
“You, little madam, to not deserve to get my attention, you uneducated child. I did not raise you do be so ungrateful. All these years you’ve leeched off my hard work, you still think yourself too far above us people too give anything back? Who fed you? Who gave you clothes? Who kept you warm in winter?”  
“That is something you should have thought about before having children. What are you going to do? Sell me off to the next best barren woman you can find for a little bit of extra cash like you did last time? Rat me off to the coppers if you’re ever searched for whatever bullshit you’re unsuccessfully trying to pull off?”  
“You do not have the freedom to decide such matters, Éponine. You will continue to work.”  
“Why would I?”  
“Because I say so! You are my daughter! You will obey me!”  
It looked like Thénardier was ready to jump over the table to grab at Éponine. Montparnasse was thankful they stood at opposite ends of the table which served as a desk; if need be, it would give Éponine the few precious seconds needed to escape his father’s clutches.  
“Do not talk to me in that tone, young lady! You would be nothing without me. If you truly do not want to work anymore, feel free to leave! Watch your body rot away on the street, feel yourself starve because you are incapable of being anything but a parasite profiting off someone else’s work! Leave! I never want to see you again! You are not my daughter anymore!”  
“I never was!”, Éponine screamed. The door rattled in its frame when he slammed it shut behind him.  
“Damned ungrateful brat,” Thénardier muttered. “Why didn’t you do anything to stop her? We need her!”  
“I don’t, Thénardier. I don’t need _you_ either, just to be clear. The only reason I put up with your insufferable behaviour for so long is out of pity. I’m only here to get my fifty percent and then I’m gone.”  
Montparnasse stretched out his hand. If he had to spend one more minute in one room with Thénardier, he could not be held accountable for injuring the man.  
The weight of the cash felt like freedom in his hands.

“Thank you.” Montparnasse slightly pulled the corners of his mouth upwards. His sardonic smile was nothing short of mockery for the failure of a man standing in front of him.  
He stopped one last time while holding the door open.  
“Thénardier?”  
“Hm?” The man looked up again.  
“I’m not working with you anymore either.”  
The click of the lock when the door closed chimed like liberty bells in Montparnasse’s ear.

**[end of the scene]**

***

When Montparnasse came home, Éponine was sitting on the sofa. The fireplace was empty, only the ashes from the fire of the day remained.  
“I hope I did not keep you waiting for too long,” Montparnasse said while hanging his coat up. “Congratulations, by the way.”  
“Thank you.”  
Montparnasse let himself fall into the sofa next to Éponine. Together, they were staring into the ashes of long since extinguished flames.  
“Why now?”, Montparnasse asked.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Why not quit earlier?” Montparnasse likely would not have managed two weeks living under one roof with Thénardier without bashing someone’s head in. And considering his preference for more sophisticated means of physical harm, this meant a lot.  
“I think I’ve saved enough money by now. I’m gonna need everything you’ve hidden here.”  
“Okay.”  
“And… I don’t know, Parnasse. I was scared. He is right, you know. I’ve never been alone. There is so much I don’t know. It’s like having a knife stuck in your hand. It hurts, and nothing is ever going to heal if I leave it there, but eventually the pain dulls and I get used to it and that’s better than the change and first additional damage if you pull it out.”  
“But you’re still scarred.”  
It wasn’t a question. He had seen Éponine, seen him claim his freedom. If Éponine wasn’t scarred, he would have taken clothes, money, and probably a few knives from Montparnasse and left long before he left. Instead, he had waited for him to come back home.  
“You know how all the money stashed here is only half of what I actually got from the jobs?”  
“Hm.”  
“Well, I’ve begun looking for my brothers.”  
“Gavroche? But he-”  
“Not Gav. My other brothers. When the man took that girl away — her name was Euphrasie, but we never called her that. You know the girl I told you about, whose mother had left her because she was too poor to take care of her? — my mother was pregnant with Gavroche. And a few years after that, when we were in Paris, she- she gave birth to twins. She gave them away to some woman.”  
“What are their names?”  
Éponine breathed out loudly and sniffed.  
“I don’t know, Parnasse.” His voice cracked. “I don’t think she ever gave them a name!”  
“You said you’ve begun looking for them.”  
“Yes. I wrote to the city we were living in back then, Montfermeil, about any adoptions of twin boys around that time. They told me they could find no information. So I wrote to the newspapers, for an ad, and I wrote again, and again…”  
“And?”  
“They found a woman who might have nursed them.”  
“And you want to find her?”  
“Yes.”  
Éponine was going to leave. There was nothing Montparnasse could do now to make him stay.  
“What about Azelma and Gavroche?”, Montparnasse asked.  
“I will take them with me if they want. I think Zelma will agree to leave. I don’t know about Gavroche though. You know him, head as thick as stone. Will you- Will you keep an eye on him if he says no?”  
Éponine did not turn to look Montparnasse when he made the request, and neither did Montparnasse. This was the time for words only, not for looking at each other. That might reveal something they would rather keep private.  
“Of course.”  
“Thank you.”  
“When will you leave?”  
“Preferably tonight. As soon as I can find Gav and Zelma. The longer I stay here, the smaller the chance I can actually pull through.”  
“This sounds like the smart thing to do.”  
Éponine and Montparnasse stared into the hearth. They had done this many times, letting the evening flow into the night while they were just enjoying the others company. Most of the time, they had drunk some wine or beer one of them had swiped on their way home. Montparnasse preferred the former. This night, however, there was no enjoyment, no lightness to the silence between them. All in all, the heaviness in Montparnasse’s heart was different from any farewell he had lived through so far. Most of the time — Grimal, Madame Brilal, the two rich sisters whose mother had thrown him out — a certain freedom had come with it. Louisette had given him no time to dwell on thoughts of _what-ifs_ and regret before she took the decision about her life out of his hands. Even the few hours Montparnasse had spent in Grantaire’s flat before leaving Paris had not been the same. Enjolras had left him long before that, after all. It had been nothing more than an excursion for nostalgia’s sake.  
How was Enjolras doing? Montparnasse had heard rumours about unrests in the capital. If Enjolras was still in Paris, he would surely be right in the middle of them. It would have gone against his nature to do otherwise.  
There was a knock on the door.  
If the house had not been so quiet, Montparnasse might have missed it. Éponine was already sitting upright, angstily looking in the direction of the exit. He threw Montparnasse a glance. They both thought the same thing.  
What if Thénardier was not going to let him leave this easily?  
A second knock.  
Montparnasse signed Éponine to be quiet and stood up to walk to the door.  
A third knock.  
“I’m coming!”, he called and glanced back once more to make sure that Éponine was not in the immediate line of sight. He was nowhere to be seen. Good.  
Montparnasse opened the door. It was not Thénardier wanting to get back on his son.  
Azelma was standing outside, shaking, Gavroche’s hand gripped tightly in hers. Without another word, Montparnasse let them in.  
Maybe he had given Thénardier too much credit by thinking he cared about his children, even if it was to his own benefit only.  
“Good news: We do not have to look for Gavroche anymore,” he called to Éponine. The two younger Thénardier children — it was an unsettling thought that Gavroche was not the youngest of the siblings — ran to their older brother as soon as they saw him. Éponine wrapped them in his open arms and pressed them close to his chest.  
“I was so scared. He screamed at you, Ponine!” Azelma sobbed into his sleeve. Montparnasse could see how Éponine only gripped her tighter.  
“I’m safe. I’m fine.”  
“What happened? What are you going to do now?”, Gavroche asked. He suddenly looked far too serious for his age. Montparnasse wished the boy could go back to the annoying nuisance he normally was instead of whoever he had to be now.  
“I’m not working for him anymore. I will leave. There is a chance I might find our brothers, you remember them, right, Zelma?”  
Azelma nodded in tears.  
“Ponine, what-?” Gavroche looked utterly lost. Éponine pressed him closer to his chest. Montparnasse could see he was saying something, but it was too quiet to hear. He could only guess it was the same story he had heard only shortly earlier. It would come as a shock to Gavroche. Do discover one owns ignorance on a matter, especially about oneself, was never an easy thing. Especially at such a young age.  
“You’re leaving?”, Azelma asked.  
“Yes.”  
“And you’re never coming back?”  
“Azelma, Gavroche, I-“  
“No! You’re not allowed to leave! What are we supposed to do without you?” Gavroche was gripping Éponines shirt. Only a bit more strength and he could rip holes into it.  
Éponine breathed out loudly. Montparnasse could only imagine the weight Gavroche had lifted of his shoulders with this simple complaint.  
“I’d never leave you alone. Do you- Are you ready to leave with me?”  
Gavroche and Azelma looked at each other.  
“Of course.”  
“I’m not sure what will happen. I don’t have a lot of money and it’s possible we won’t find anyone in Montfermeil.”  
“Anything is better than to be left alone here. No offence, Montparnasse,” Azelma threw the last part over her shoulder. Montparnasse had stepped a little closer but was still at a safe distance. This was nothing for him to intrude on.  
“None taken.”  
Azelma had already dived back into a hug with Éponine. He mouthed _thank you_ over her shoulder.  
After that, everything went by quickly. They packed Éponine’s money into several bags, along with a little bit of food and two skins filled with water. Éponine knew the environment of the town, the road to Paris was not complicated to find. The sunrise was still an hour away when they snuck through the dark and hidden streets of the down until the rows of houses grew thinner and more distant between one another.  
Éponine stopped and turned to Montparnasse. His clothes, the ones Montparnasse had made for him, were safely stored in his bag. They were useful for numerous occasions, and would surely help him find his brothers, but they were not fit for travelin. They both knew this.  
“Thank you. For everything you’ve done.”  
“It was my pleasure.”  
“I will write.”  
“Please do so.”  
“Parnasse…”, Gavroche asked. Montparnasse kneeled next to him. He would have to wash his trousers to get the dirt out of their knees.  
“Yes?”  
“Will we see you again?”  
“I cannot promise, but I most certainly hope so.”  
Montparnasse ruffled through his hair and gripped his hat. It was too big for Gavroche’s head and slipped down to the bridge of his nose.  
“You’ll give it back to me when we meet again, alright?”  
If Montparnasse wasn’t mistaken, he could hear sniffles from Gavroche as his hands closed around the rim of the hat and pulled it down even further as much as possible. It wobbled precariously when he nodded.  
Montparnasse stood up again and waved to Azelma to come closer. He was wearing a velvet cravat, the most expensive he owned. It was thick and warm and held of even the coldest of winter winds. The knot he had tied it in fell apart in a matter of seconds when he pulled at one of the ends. It looked incredibly big around Azelma’s neck.  
“It’s not a lot, but it will keep you warm. Don’t lose it, okay?”  
“I’ll keep it forever.” Azelma did her best to smile through her tears. Montparnasse wished he could join her in this visual display of their feelings.  
Éponine was smiling when Montparnasse turned around to face him.  
“Admit you’ll miss us.” This time, he managed to hide the crack in his voice rather well. But nothing of this sort could escape Montparnasse’s attention.  
“Of course.”  
“I’ll write you.”  
“I will wait for it. I hope you find your brothers. And who knows. Maybe fate will favour you and you’ll get to meet that girl again.”  
“That would be too great a coincidence.”  
When they hugged goodbye, it was bittersweet. Montparnasse truly hoped Gavroche would give him the hat back one day. It was one of his favourites, after all.

Now, however, he had some things to prepare. Because the longer he thought about it, the less Montparnasse was able to accept that Thénardier would be able to walk away utterly unscathed from this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éponine calls Cosette zucchini and sock because the French words for those are “Courgette” and “Chausette” respectively.  
>   
>  **Recap of the skippable scene:**  
>  Montparnasse enters the room while Éponine and Thénardier are fighting. Éponine reveals that he will not help Thénardier in his criminal endeavours anymore. After some continued arguing, Thénardier practically disowns Éponine and tells him he will now have to live on his own, in response to which Éponine storms out of the room. Thénardier tells Montparnasse he should have done something to keep him from leaving as they need him, to which Montparnasse answers that he needs neither Éponine nor Thénardier. He demands the 50% of the night’s heist’s profit, which Thénardier hands to him.  
> [go back to the text, to the end of the skipped scene]


	8. Once again, we thought Happiness had been found, but there was one more corner It could hide behind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse thinks he controls all the strings, but as so often, the fall of pride is followed by a painful landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after this chapter I will not be able to follow my weekly update schedule any more. But do not fret, I will continue to write this fic as fast as my current life and situation allows me to.  
> I hope you enjoy it and leave a comment if you do!

Montparnasse laid awake for the entire night. Thénardier was his next goal and he had an idea how to deal with him. However, Montparnasse also knew that ideas did not make a masterpiece, the details did and no matter how strong his want to get the man the fate he deserved, Montparnasse knew he had to knot a tight net if there was to be no chance of escape; and no possibility for Montparnasse himself to get entangled in it.  
First, he kept quiet.  
Thénardier did not seek out Montparnasse. It seemed the message that he would not participate in any of his plans had been heard loud and clear; especially now that all three of his children were gone. Montparnasse suspected the man was currently quite busy finding other people he could escape to keep the mediocrity he called an inn running. Nothing could replace the slaves he had called his children in cheap labour, however.  
The tailor shop went on as usual. Montparnasse could still pick and chose whose garments he made, demand was everlasting and there were not many who could supply the same way as he. Life was good. Had Montparnasse been any other kind of man, he might have forgotten about Thénardier and the fate he undoubtedly deserved. At night, sewing hems and seams in front of the fireplace, leaning against the sofa Éponine knew so well, Montparnasse wondered if the three of them had already reached Montfermeil. It was not impossibly far, and they had little luggage to slow them down. Hopefully, the money Éponine had saved up would last them for their journey.  
A young lady, long since disillusioned about any potential she had in catching Montparnasse’s eye, gave him the signal he needed to act. She would likely never know her gossip had been the start of a man’s demise. Montparnasse would be eternally grateful that she had taken a liking to talking to him, to inform him about everything that was happening around them which he was otherwise incapable of gathering information about. Montparnasse knew how it was done, he had achieved brilliant results in these matters before and in much more tedious circumstances, but this was a lazy way, it was easy, it was _nice_. Other people did not have to work hard to get to know the right people. It was nice to be one of them for a change.  
“Monsieur, what happened to your friend, the handsome fellow you would sometimes bring to the café with you? We have been missing him.”  
Montparnasse kept his head down. He had to make sure he did not show any reaction, as if he were scared. Like a coward who was hiding something if she were to be asked about it later. He could never be too sure.  
“He was quite charming, I must say. I met him once, here, in the shop. If this young lady, poor girl she was, had not been with him, I would have wanted him all for myself. It was only later that I found out she was his sister, you know. What was his name again?”  
“Éponine, Mademoiselle.”  
“Oh yes, Éponine. A great name, I must say. It fits him very well. His father owns an inn, doesn’t he? A friend of mine converses there regularly. He told me he hadn’t seen them for several days. A pity, he said. They were one of the few people who were able to brighten up the place. How is Éponine?”  
“I imagine he is well, Mademoiselle. I… have not seen him for quite some time either.”  
“Hm, what a pity. You must tell me about him when the two of you meet again. This is quite the mystery! All of this is very exciting.”  
“I’m sure it is, Mademoiselle.”  
People had noticed Éponine’s absence. It was time to give Inspector Javert a visit.

*** 

To Javert, Montparnasse was a stranger, or hopefully something quite close to it. He had no information about him, no reason of suspicion lest a hint of paternal overprotection over Jehan. All in all, there was no reason he _shouldn’t_ listen to Montparnasse or suspect him of being anything but an innocent bystander. If push came to shove, Montparnasse could easily cut himself free from any trap Thénardier threw at him at the last second. He was young and beautiful, after all, and in all appearance innocent of all crimes without the occasional exception of curiosity.  
Javert had dark circles under his eyes and his beard lacked the structural integrity it had the first time Montparnasse had seen him up close.  
“You,” he said.  
Montparnasse swallowed visibly. His hands knead the brim of his hat, holding it in front of his stomach as if he was preparing himself to beg for some food — not that Montparnasse had done anything like it in a long time. Not since he had left Grimal, at least.  
“Good evening, Inspector.”  
Javert looked at Montparnasse for a moment, a few seconds to long. He blinked slowly, almost as if he were at risk of falling asleep.  
“Jehan’s not home.”  
Jehan was not home more often than Montparnasse had expected when they had first slit his chest open. However, Jehan was not the reason he had come all this way, not this time.  
“I’m here to see… _you_ , Inspector.”  
Javert looked up. Or rather down, if one accounted for his general height — impressive, even if Montparnasse considered himself to be quite tall as well — and the additional steps elevating him a few feet above the ground Montparnasse was standing on.  
“Come in.”  
The warm light shone a straight path from Montparnasse’s shoetips to the welcoming frame of the door. Javert was holding the door open and looking at him expectantly.  
Judgement was falling close behind when Montparnasse stepped over the threshold.

Javert led him to his office. Montparnasse had never stepped inside, only seen glimpses on his occasional official visits to Jehan. It was simply furnished, pragmatic. A desk, a candleholder, pen, and paper, and two chairs, one of either side of the desk.  
“Please, sit down.”  
Montparnasse obeyed. Javert massaged his forehead, supporting his head on his elbow which was resting on the armrest.  
“I must admit, Montparnasse, I’m surprised to hear you’ve wanted to talk to me. How may I help you?”  
“Well, Inspector, I…”  
It was easy to play normal people like fiddle. They were drawn in like bees to pollen, swallowing any story Montparnasse decided to serve them on a silver plate.  
The only question was whether the Inspector Javert was one of these people.  
“Within the last months, several young people have mysteriously disappeared.”  
“I am aware.”  
“I have a friend, Éponine, his father, he owns an inn. Well, I, What I want to say is…”  
“Take your time, Montparnasse. What does your friend have to do with the disappearances?”  
Montparnasse looked up, straight into Javert’s eyes. There was no room for hesitation.  
“It has been several days now, nearly a week since I’ve last seen. His younger sister and younger brother have disappeared as well.”  
Javert leaned forward, head resting on his folded hands. His sudden obvious interest did nothing to hide the signs of all the restless nights he had already given this case.  
“Are you reporting your friend missing, Montparnasse? Like the others who have disappeared?”  
“I do not know about the other people. But I know that… his parents- his father, he did not agree with him. They have not come to you because they were looking for him, have they?”  
Javert pulled a sheet of paper out of the top drawer of the desk and wet his penholder with ink.  
“When did you say was the last time you saw your friend? Éponine, was it?”  
“Yes. 6 days ago, Inspector.”  
“Last name?”  
“Thénardier.”  
“You’ve mentioned he had younger siblings?”  
“Yes, two. Azelma, his sister and Gavroche, his brother. He took care of them most of the time.”  
“No trace of them either, I presume?”  
“No.”  
“Tell me, Montparnasse: Where is this inn the Thénardiers are running?”  
Montparnasse had to work hard to fight off the smile creeping up on him and to retain the mask of frightful innocence he had so carefully curated for this role.  
The wheels of destiny had just begun grinding in earnest, and nothing was going to stop him from making them continue on, until fate struck just.  
Thankfully, Javert was a protective man, and a prideful father. Montparnasse had to admit: Fortuna was smiling upon him and placed just the right man to execute his plans right into his waiting hands.  
“I can show you the way, if you want?”  
“I would very much appreciate that.” 

A few minutes later, Montparnasse was leading Javert down the streets toward the inn. It would surely be filled with every fool which had not been yet scarred away from the place by Thénardier’s scams. There were surprisingly more of these people without wits than Montparnasse had expected. The perfect audience for the glorious piece of entertainment Montparnasse was about to present them. 

The Inspector’s sword was rattling against his leg with a cold ring.

*** 

Éponine had always been a wall, keeping things from colliding by his mere presence. Whether it was protecting Azelma from their parents, inventing excuses for Gavroche’s prolonged absences until they did not notice anymore when he was gone. As long as Éponine had lived in this house, Montparnasse had done his best to keep intruders out of the in, let alone bring them to its doorstep.

Éponine did not live there anymore.  
“Wait outside, Montparnasse. It is better for you not to get involved any further. Thank you for coming to me.”  
Javert’s hand was heavy on Montparnasse’s shoulder, rooting him on the spot. This had not been a request, it was an order, and there was no escape to find a way as to say no.  
Montparnasse nodded and watched as Javert secured his hat once more, before pulling the heavy wooden door open like a sheet of pasta. It was a shame he would not get a chance to see whatever happened to Thénardier play out in action. He would not cry over lost entertainment however, this matter was not about him, after all. Montparnasse would get to bask in the result of whatever transpired in this building, and that alone would be more than enough.  
It was sheer luck that Thénardier lived the kind of life which would not allow him to dig himself free of anything Javert would happen to find in his home, his workplace. Montparnasse had done nothing but flick a pebble to make the tower fall — even if it was quite a small tower and truly not impressive in any way, one had to admit.  
Montparnasse waited. Minutes ticket by, slowly, like syrup through a clogged bottleneck. What was Javert doing in there? With every moment Montparnasse could not distinguish if anything was happening inside, let alone what, something ugly was growing inside him, wrapping itself around his ribs, his organs, heart and lungs, slowly crawling up his throat until he felt as if he had to gag. Montparnasse was not a man who questioned his actions, his success often, if at all. Everything he had achieved in life had been through his own perseverance. Nothing he had set his mind to had failed so far. And yet, a tiny voice, suspiciously slimy and of which he hoped nothing more than to hear it speak to him from behind bars, whispered in his head, with it’s forked tongue and a face Montparnasse was far too familiar with for his liking.  
_You will never get me. I will do whatever I want for however long I want it. No one will catch me, not even you. Éponine will never be free of me and neither will you._  
The bang when the door opened and slammed against the wall was like a hammer stroke to Montparnasse’s bones, shattering the ice and frost which had taken hold of them. Javert’s steps were heavy in his boots. Despite all the signs of sleep-deprivation drawn across his face, a new curiosity, hunger, and a glimmering flame of satisfaction where alight in the inspector’s eyes. They paled to something similar to nothingness next to the gaunt and serious look with which he approached Montparnasse.  
“One thing is sure, your friend has not been seen here for the last few days.”  
Montparnasse did his best to appear surprise. A touch of fear and anxiety would not be out of place either. But all of it with an overlaying veil of understanding, as if such news were of no surprise; expected even. Montparnasse was no fool and he was not known to be one.  
“What now? Does he-“  
“I did my best not to raise his suspicions, although he did seem quite nervous in my presence. He did not even mention his son with a single word. I will have to wait for legal approval of searching his home and take him in for interrogation as soon as there is more evidence for the involved in your friend’s disappearance.”  
Montparnasse could only imagine the stress Thénardier had experienced when Javert had stepped into the barroom. The inspector was a very imposing figure in his uniform, no one could deny that.  
Instead of answering, he starred straight back at Javert. For one moment, he expected him to rest his hand once again on his shoulder, trying to calm him, as he had done before. It seemed to be something a father such as Javert would do to calm down someone in Montparnasse’s alleged situation.  
Javert stood still, unmoving.  
“You should go home, Montparnasse. There’s nothing you can do to help your friend. Go sleep. I will keep inform you if anything new surfaces.”  
He tipped his hat and turned away.  
“Wait, what-“  
“I’m confident Jehan will be able to tell me where I can find you.” Without turning back, Javert walked away. 

Now all Montparnasse could do was wait. He hated waiting.

*** 

Montparnasse felt like a violin chord strung to tightly, ready to snap at any moment, injuring whichever hands was grasped to tightly around him, whoever had the bad luck of standing too close.  
It was unbearable to wait for Javert. With every passing moment, the urge to run to the inn and bash Thénardier’s head in with a rock grew stronger. It wasn’t Montparnasse’s usual style. If he was lucky, no one would connect the unfortunate accident. He could already be over the next seven mountains by the time came to look for him.  
Three knocks echoed through the store. They were sharp, like the sudden silence when a clock stops ticking. The time of waiting had come to its end.  
It was raining outside. The water was dropping down from Javert’s hat, onto his coat, strengthened with wax. Slowly, the droplets slit down, carving their way through one another to succumb to the irresistible pull of gravity.  
The inspector looked as if he was tasked with announcing a sudden death.  
“Inspector. Come in.” Without wasting anymore time, Montparnasse stepped aside. Javert took off his hat while stepping through the doorframe.  
“I gather you have news.”  
“We searched the Thénardier Inn.”  
“And?”  
“Nothing points to the fact that either of the children fled. Their important possessions like clothes or memorabilia, even a little money, could be found in their room. We have taken the parents into custody for the time being.”  
Montparnasse stayed silent. His gaze searched the room, caught on a nail protruding from a ceiling beam. He didn’t know any of this. He had no idea where Éponine, Azelma or Gavroche could be. This was all news to him.  
“Can I see them?”, he asked.  
“Montparnasse-“  
“They were my friends, Inspector. I was responsible for them. You cannot refuse me the right to speak to the last person to see them alive.”  
Of course, Javert couldn’t. That person was Montparnasse himself, after all.  
“Montparnasse! These were not the only things we found.”  
Montparnasse let his head snap back to stare at Javert.  
“What else?”  
This was it. The net was drawing closer around the two Thénardiers. Even if there was no further evidence to incriminate them of their own children’s disappearance — Montparnasse had not planted any — there was no possibility of escape left. They would get put on trial; they would get convicted. The Thénardiers were sinking, whatever they achieved in their time in town so far would only pull them down quicker.  
“Other incriminating evidence. They will not admit to anything, but they will be charged with break-ins, theft, property damage and document forgery.”  
“Can I speak to them?”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“Montparnasse. I should not be telling you all of this in the first place. I am only telling you because you are close to Jehan and I am sorry you’ve lost your friend.”  
“If you are sorry I’ve lost my friend, you should let me see them. Let me see Thénardier.”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“If I did that- You- Thénardier refuted all accusations I made, but he did throw some your way. I believe you are a good kid, Montparnasse. Jehan likes you. Stay out of this, please.”  
Montparnasse stepped back. That bastard. Thénardier had ratted him out. And to Javert no less.  
“Montparnasse. You were not involved in anything this man has done, have you? Not willingly?”  
“No,” he said. “Never.”  
Javert straightened his coat.  
“Good.”  
He starred down at Montparnasse a few more seconds.  
“Don’t do anything criminal. And stay low.”  
With a courteous nod, the inspector opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Montparnasse watched him go.  
So far, most of his plan had worked. Thénardier was where he belonged, the Madame as well. With every moment that passed, a burning want clawed its way up Montparnasse’s throat.  
He needed to see Thénardier; one last time. He needed to see him sit in the rathole he had dug himself, see him suffer the punishment he had earned, the one he deserved for humiliating Montparnasse so many times. For making everyone — Azelma, Gavroche, _Éponine_ — put up with him.  
Javert refused to help him. He was of no use anymore. Luckily, Montparnasse did not need help. He had not lied to Thénardier when they had first met. _He was the best at his craft_. Thénardier had tried to backstab him and Montparnasse had hit first. Now, nothing could keep him from pushing the knife in deeper. So deep it was impossible to pull out again.

*** 

The moon was hanging in the night sky like a watchful eye. Vigilant, but useless in the end. No one, _nothing_ could stop Montparnasse. However, he would have expected someone to try at least.  
The security in the prison cell — one of ten in total, as the police station did not house any long-term residents — took the form of a young lad, sitting at a desk. A large iron ring was clasped between his fingers. Fingers that were attached to an arm which served as an improvised pillow to his head, deeply snuggled within Morpeus’ arms. Slowly, but not especially carefully, Montparnasse pried the man’s — rather boy, he did seem quite young and innocent while sleeping on his shift — fingers away from the cold iron and slipped the keys away from the service desk as quietly as possible. The door to the cells grated loudly. The security guard did not move. Montparnasse slipped past.  
Inside the cell block, it was nearly as dark as in a pot of ink. Only the light from the open door and through the two openings in the walls at the end of the corridor was it possible to even see anything. Carefully, slowly balancing his weight from one foot to nthe other, front to back, Montparnasse walked down the row of barred alcoves. Most of them seemed empty.  
Thénardier’s hands barely missed grabbing Montparnasse by the collar. The cold of the stonewall could be felt even through his woollen coat. Thénardier must have been freezing to death by these temperatures.  
Montparnasse hoped they were not given blankets.  
The force Thénardier had thrown himself against the metal bars separating him from the outside world let a dull ring echo through the room. Anyone awake would have been awake by the ruckus. Montparnasse knew he was not in any danger of being discovered.  
“Good evening,” Montparnasse greeted. He still pressed himself against the wall. He would not allow Thénardier’s dirty finger to lay hand on his immaculate clothes.  
Madame Montparnasse stepped out from the shadow encasing most of the cell and into the dimness which made her barely recognizable. She looked ghostly.  
“You’ve got some balls coming here, boy.” Her voice melted into the hoarse scraping of Thénardier who was trying to shake the iron bars.  
“Are you not happy to see me?”  
If Montparnasse was being honest, he had never dealt much with Madame Thénardier. It had always been her husband who wanted to hire him for some new plan. Now he began to wonder if there hadn’t been a skilful player in the shadows all along.  
“How did you know where to find us? You haven’t bothered to check in ever since these brats left us. I thought you’d disappeared with ‘em. Would have been good riddance.”  
She spat right in front of his feet. Montparnasse did not budge from the place he had plastered himself against the cold bricks.  
“It’s always easy to find you. I simply have to find where the stench of your of is the strongest.”  
Montparnasse only had to slightly lean to the left to dodge the pebbles and the hay Thénardier threw in his direction.  
“Don’t play all high and mighty with me boy. We know you’ve had something to do with this. First Éponine bails, and now we’re stuck here while your pompous ass waltzes in and out of everything like he goddamn pleases. You will regret sticking your nose so high in the air, boy, just you wait.”  
Montparnasse only grinned, as mockingly as he could while still hiding it behind the sheer veil of politeness.  
“It was you, wasn’t it?”, Thénardier sayd. Montparnasse stayed silent.  
“You little bastard. You think you can win this game? Boy, I’ve been playing it long before you were even born! I’m coming for ya, just you wait!”  
Montparnasse only continued to grin and bowed slightly.  
“I hope they find Éponine soon.” Without leaving the cell out of his sight, Montparnasse left the police station. The warden was still sleeping. It had been a fieldtrip, and a very enjoyable one at that.  
As with most things in Montparnasse’s life, it would not last.

*** 

Montparnasse was still basking in his glorious victory in battle over Thénardier when he went to the market the next morning. The sun was radiant, merciless in it’s cold light. Whenever he stepped out of the shadow, he had to lift his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness.  
A crowd was blocking the path to the bridge. Montparnasse pushed his way to the front to see what was so interesting. On the river bank, the legs still dangling in the water, slowly swaying for- and backwards with the waves, was a body.  
Even the most basic of features was barely distinguishable anymore. Montparnasse did not know how long it had been vegetating in the river, but it must have been a few weeks at least. It was bloated, soaked with water, the unmistakably ashy grey pale skin took on when blood stopped flowing through it; by the looks of it, fish and other inhabitants of the water had already begun feeding on it.  
Montparnasse was barely able to keep himself from stepping even closer and kneeling to inspect it further. Somebody gripped his arm and shook him thoroughly. Montparnasse was barely able to keep his hat from falling off and tumbling into the frozen mud.  
“What are you doing there, standing like an idiot? Get help! Do something! Get him out of the water!” An old woman with two teeth missing was barking at him. Shaking off the instinct to follow her order, Montparnasse ripped his arm out of her grip. This old hag would not order him around. She had just opened her mouth — a bottomless pit of endless darkness — when a loud sob broke them out of their trance. A man fell to his knees, digging his short, clean fingers into the mud. His trousers would forever be ruined, there was no saving them now.  
“My Son!”, he cried out, stretching out his hands towards the body, still swaying along in the water, left, right, out, in, as if this was nothing but a light breeze to enjoy on the first warm day of spring. “my _son-_ “, he chocked out. He cradled his hand on his chest, as if he were holding the last object in the world with any meaning. His grasp was empty.  
Javert stepped up behind him. His gaze immediately fell onto the corpse. Montparnasse could see how he methodically took everything in. The positioning of the body, the clothes it was dressed in, the state of decay of the flesh, the height of the sun in the sky, the crowd surrounding the spectacle; it still felt like lightning struck his bones when the inspector’s eyes landed on him and starred straight into what could have been his soul in another life.  
“Help me get the body ashore.”  
For one moment, Montparnasse wanted to resist him, to tell him no. He had not spent all this time running just to be back where he started, dragging meat — no, flesh — through dirty soil on an icy winter day while everyone starred without doing anything. But this was not the right moment to get on the inspector’s bad side. Not with him, not with this many people present. Montparnasse was not at the bottom of the latter anymore. This would not tie him to the bottom any further.  
The body gave way under his fingers when Montparnasse gripped the shoulder and hoisted it upwards on Javert’s count of three. He could feel the sagginess, the missing warmth that translated into its very own coldness even through his gloves.  
It had been years and Montparnasse had nearly forgotten what it meant to touch a corpse, a body left to rot because no one cared enough about the person to let it be found, not even its murderer. He wished he had never needed to experience this again.  
Montparnasse was breathing heavily when they finally reached the beginning of the pavement and Javert gave him the sign to let the body to the ground. The crowd had parted in front of them, as if they were carrying some dangerous disease, but they did not flee. Most of them did not even turn away their eyes, and rather stared at the spectacle that offered itself to their eyes, no matter its violence.  
Morbidity and disgust truly seemed to be more agreeable companions than boredom.  
Montparnasse could still hear the sobs from the man who had fallen to his knees when he had seen the body on the riverbank. He was dragging himself towards it, pushing people out of his way. Even though his approach formed a straight line, Montparnasse could see the fear in his eyes. The man wanted to do nothing more than run away, back into the safe arms of ignorance and if need must, in the treacherous embrace of denial.  
He dug his fingers into the hardened ground a few feet away from them, not once stopping his lamentation. Montparnasse looked at Javert.  
“His father.”  
Of course, Montparnasse had gathered as much. It had been difficult not to, after listening to the man’s minutes-long and seemingly endless wails about _my son_.  
“Where were you going anyway?”, Javert asked in return.  
“To the market. The one at Place Saint-Jean.”  
Javert’s brows furrowed and he sighed, looking down at the corpse, at the man crying in the icy mud and back up at Montparnasse.  
“Don’t bother. I hope you have some stocks at home, or a few things that don’t waste away easily?”  
“Why?”  
“The market won’t be open today.”  
“How do you know?”  
Javert looked at their feet again. The corpse was still lying there in the exact position they had let him fall in.  
“Well, we just found the deceased body of the market’s organiser and the current owner does not appear to be in any state to take care of professional matters today.”  
Montparnasse looked first at the body and then at the corpse’s father. The trousers were ruined indeed, as were the man’s gloves, his shoes, his coat, likely even his socks. It was a tragedy for these — as Montparnasse could see now that he was taking a closer look — were unbelievably expensive. The market business must have been going well.  
A faint memory, buried under more happy and important ones, began to dig its way to the surface. Montparnasse had heard about the market organiser once before. Javert had told him about the market organiser before.  
 _We have another victim; the organiser of the Market at Place Saint-Jean disappeared._  
“I thought they had been kidnapped,” Montparnasse murmured. Javert did not look at him.  
“Well, not anymore.”  
They continued to stare at the corpse. If Montparnasse concentrated hard enough on one point, on one wrinkle on the man’s skin, he could imagine the maggots beginning to crawl out of it after he had laid a few days underground.  
“Montparnasse.” Javert was still not looking at him. Montparnasse did not move his head and instead glanced at the inspector out of the corner of his eye. The sobs from the corpse’s father had faded to white noise, barely worth paying attention to.  
“Mmh?”  
“Stay out of this. Take care of your business. Don’t tell anyone about what you’ve seen here, not even Jehan. Lay low.”  
Montparnasse did not say anything.  
“You’re a good boy, Montparnasse. Death does unspeakable things to a person, no matter how they get to know it. Don’t let it change you. Can you promise me that?”  
Javert’s gaze was grey and unyielding.  
“Yes,” Montparnasse said. It was not lie. There was nothing Death could change about him anymore. Nothing it hadn’t already ripped from his body like killer taking their trophy.  
The crowd had not grown any sparser. Montparnasse tipped his hat.  
“Inspector.”  
Javert simply nodded as a goodbye. Montparnasse followed his advice. It was not the right day to visit the market.

*** 

The news spread fast and the reaction was even faster. Fear suffocated the town like a heavy blanket, old and mouldy. Clients in the shop grew sparser with each day. It was fascinating to observe what impact the reminder of one’s one mortality could cause on people’s behaviour. Frightening, even.  
Of course, certain parts of life had to continue as normal, or at least as normal as possible under these circumstances. Montparnasse had to refrain from whistling a melody as he wandered through the empty streets to the store. The Market at the Place Saint-Jean was still closed, understandably so, and the others in town were too far away for Montparnasse to walk there and carry his purchases home, even if were only two bags full of food. Maybe he should give Jehan a visit. Javert had warned Montparnasse about involving himself into the entire affair — not that he had planned on doing so, he had no interest in sniffing around other people’s closet-skeletons — but there had been no rules about visiting a friend. And at this point, even the inspector could not deny that Jehan and Montparnasse had long since passed the point of being mere acquaintances.  
Montparnasse did not get this far.  
He had still some way to go to the store. It had been supposed to be a breeze, a walk in the park, even. The Thénardiers was locked away in a rotting cell. They were not supposed to make trouble anymore.  
4 Police officers blocked Montparnasse’s path.  
“Monsieur,” Montparnasse greeted them, tipping his hat; back straight, ready to run at moment’s notice. If the situation turned ugly, there was a knife strapped to his belt, hidden under his coat. Montparnasse had hoped to have left the days for such necessities behind him, but one could never be too careful.  
Unfortunately, his caution had been justified. Equally unfortunately, he was not given the chance to use his knife. Without announcing who they were — even if their uniform made it obvious — nor stating their intentions, the group marched into action. The tallest took a step forward, wrapped his hands around Montparnasse’s throat and pressed his thumb into his larynx. Montparnasse had barely time and no energy to free himself from the murderous grip, before he was already forced down onto one knee, gasping for air, gloved hands digging into the soft woollen fabric of the man’s sleeve. A second officer kicked him in the back of the knee. Montparnasse fell even deeper into the chocking grip, now only kneeling on one leg and struggling to find his balance. The third officer, nearly a boy still, going by his babyface, hurried behind Montparnasse, twisted his arms behind his back and quickly caught his wrists in handcuffs. The cold of the ground was soaking through Montparnasse’s trousers, his hat had fallen off and rolled to the side, where it now laid upside down, as if belonged to a beggar in need of money.  
“What do you want? Get off me!” Montparnasse tried to shake them off, one of them at least, but they were too strong. The babyface pulled out the knife from its sheath.  
“He has a knife!” Triumphantly, he held it into the air. Seconds later, it was picked up by the first assaulter. He seemed to be the leader of their small group. Montparnasse spit in his face. He missed.  
“You’ll find out soon enough, bastard. Don’t resist, or I’ll have to hurt you some more.”  
With surprising force and without the slightest sign that he was out of breath, he hoisted Montparnasse up, who barely managed to stumble along, taken aback by the sudden movement, vision still dizzy from the sudden and short loss of oxygen supply. Two women looked down from a window on the second floor. Montparnasse tried to shout at them for help, to sign it, to make them move; nothing helped. They stayed still behind their glass. The grip in Montparnasse’s neck, dragging him forward, was cold and strong like a steel claw.  
The streets stayed empty for the entirety of Montparnasse’s kidnapping. Or that’s what it would have been called if the people pulling and pushing him through town had not been given the opportunity to hide their actions behind the poor excuse of upholding civil security.  
The commissary look just as cold and unyielding during the day as it had the night had last paid it a visit. Suddenly, the gaunt face of Madame Thénardier and her husbands rage were much less entertaining than they had appeared to Montparnasse in the coldness of the moment.  
“Inspector! We’ve found him on the way to his house! What should we do with it?”, the leader of the group shouted. Montparnasse winced at the volume right next to his ears. They had barely set foot inside the police station, could he not have waited a few steps more to ask his inquiry?  
If Montparnasse was not mistaken, the same boy who had been sleeping at his desk a few nights prior was once again tasked with guarding the way to the cells. Montparnasse did his best not to pay him any attention. Javert stepped outside a door on the right.  
“In here, please.” He held the door open while the coward boxed Montparnasse first into the room and then into the chair. The chains of the handcuffs clicked against each other like bells at a funeral as a chain was looped between Montparnasse’s hands, effectively binding him to the table. It did not budge when he knocked his knee against it. There would be no easy but dramatic way to escape this situation.  
The door closed loudly and Javert sat down on the other side of the table. He had several sheets of paper in front of him, all covered in scribble, unreadable from Montparnasse’s upside-down position; all papers but one. There was a small pot, half filled with ink, was embedded into the table. A simple dip pen laid in a long crevice next to it.  
Javert picked the pen up, dipped the tip inside the ink pot and put metal to paper.  
“Your name is Raphaël Montparnasse?”, he asked.  
“What am I doing here, Inspector Javert?” Montparnasse asked back.  
“Answer the question.” Javert’s eyes were unyielding, dark, unbreakable, so different from the man Montparnasse had somewhat gotten to known around Jehan.  
“Yes.”  
“Born on 17th of July 1817 in Paris?”  
Montparnasse had to think. He had never thought about the date of his birth. It had never been important. Still, he nodded. If he wanted answers, he would have to play along to a certain extent. Even more so since the inspector did not seem inclined to indulge in jest in this moment.  
“Do you know why you were brought here?”  
“Like I just asked: no. Why?”  
“Thénardier talked, and he had some remarkably interesting things to say. I will have to admit, most of which I expected. After all, you were close to the family, it comes to no surprise that he suspects you are related to his and his wife’s arrest.”  
A dawning suspicion began to rise in the back of Montparnasse’s mind.  
“Like I said, I expected him to shift the blame onto you, or to accuse you as well at least. I know people like him. You will be happy to hear that I paid no attention to his tales. Especially as _I know you_ , Montparnasse.”  
This was the horse Montparnasse had bet on. Javert was a smart man, who trusted his own instincts. Nothing Montparnasse had ever done could make the inspector suspect him of wrongdoing, even less so of the criminal nature.  
“However, as you most certainly know, we are too small a town to make the Thénardiers face trial to be convicted as they deserve. I sent for them to be escorted to the next bigger community and when my envoy arrived at the police station, they found something of great interest in the records of Thénardier’s statements, something we overlooked because there was no evidence to support his claims. No evidence accessible to us, at least.”  
Javert pulled out a sheet of paper from under his files. It had been folded several times and the ink had already begun to eat itself through the fibres. It was a page from a newspaper. Javert turned it around, so Montparnasse could read it. His index finger tapped the small headline on the upper left side of the page.  
 _Police search continues for murderer  
The police forces in Paris are still following every lead they can get to find Raphaël Montparnasse, who fled earlier this week when he was to be arrested for the murder of Julien Letrange. In the meantime, several more cases of crimes have been reopened following this new suspect and each day, new mysteries about his life come to light-_  
Montparnasse did not bother to read on. There was a drawing next to the article. A small illustration shoved a boyish, feminine young face with curly black hair to his chin. It looked nothing like Montparnasse, but it was impossible not to guess who this was supposed to represent. If Montparnasse cut his hair a few centimetres, to the length he had worn it at back in Paris, he could look this again.  
Montparnasse glanced at the date on the top of the page. Had it been this long already? Now that he was looked in an interrogation room, with an inspector of whom he knew he would be shown no mercy, no humanity, it seemed like he Louisette, Enjolras and Grantaire, having to run from the city in the middle of the night had happened just last week.  
“Do you have nothing to say in your defence?” Javert’s voice was cold as ice and as hard as the cell walls he was undoubtedly imagining Montparnasse in. Montparnasse said nothing. He knew this game. He had observed it from afar and from up close often to know all its tricks, to predict every way this draw would play out. There was nothing complicated to this situation. Montparnasse was arrested with brute force and chained to a table for interrogation. Javert had already made up his mind. Nothing he could say in this situation could alleviate his fate or lighten the load getting stacked onto his back, at worst, it would only dig him deeper into the ground, until he could see over the edge anymore and was swallowed whole.  
“I will admit, Montparnasse, that I am disappointed. I thought I could trust you, but your existence simply shows how easy it is to mask the abyss of the human soul, no matter its depth.”  
Montparnasse stayed silent. Javert sighed, stood up and knocked on the door. A few moments later, the leader from the arrest-group stepped into the room. He looked serious, professional, a far cry from the ugly disformed grimace he had shown while kicking Montparnasse into the ground with his minions. With a few practiced movements he had unchained Montparnasse from the table and led him out of the room. When they walked to the door, Montparnasse tried to step to the right, out of the doorframes way, but the claw around his arm, pulling him forward, did not budge and it was as if a mountain was standing next to Montparnasse, pushing him back whenever he pressed himself against it, pushing him further into the danger. Pain burst into flames along his hip, shoulder, and the left side of his face when he crushed into the hard wood. The bastard only gripped his arms further and put more force into pulling him forward. Montparnasse could do nothing but to stumble along.  
He threw a glance backwards. Javert was a man of manners, of honour. Surely, he would not allow his subordinates to treat their prisoners like this? Unconvicted ones, no less.  
“You should pay more attention to your surroundings. It would not be becoming if we shoved you to the judge in any state of physical disarray.”  
If it had been possible, Montparnasse would have spat Javert in the face. Instead, he had to avoid breaking his neck when the leader violently turned his head back to the front by grabbing his skull and turning it around. The boy on duty at the desk practically shivered with fear when Montparnasse glanced at him in passing by.

“Raphaël Montparnasse, you will be kept in custody until a date has been set for your trial, whereby you will be escorted from town into the legal custody of the relevant jurisdiction.”  
The heavy iron gate of the prison cell slammed close with a heavy ring. The heavy and hoarse laughs of the Thénardiers could be heard from the other side of the cell complex. Montparnasse stood alone in this small room and starred at Javert’s and the other man’s back as they left him alone in his darkness.  
The fall had been short and painful. From the biggest heights, Montparnasse was now once more at rock bottom. This time, there was no ladder in sight for escape.  
Time passed as if it was mud sliding through an hourglass. Soon enough, the Thénardiers had given up their taunts and Montparnasse had only heard some whispers now and then. He had crouched down on the straw, refusing to lie down for as long as possible. He would find a way to escape, and he would do so with his dignity and his clothes intact.  
It had taken a few hours until he could decide that all his clothes were already in a sorry enough state that laying them on beaten dirt would not cause any more damage. The ground was hard and cold, but it still took a smaller toll on his limbs and muscles than sitting in various positions without touching the ground. Montparnasse’s head was heavy and incessantly working on a plan, searching for a way to freedom. He would escape, no matter the cost.  
A low creaking, like a ghost howling in the wind, echoed through the block. A door was opened. Montparnasse forced himself to keep his eyes closed, to stay concentrated. An epiphany was waiting for him, he just needed to catch him.  
“Montparnasse, get up,” Jehan said. Montparnasse sat up straight, as if hit by lightning.  
They were standing on the other side of the prison bars, a large scarf wrapped around their head and hiding their hair. Montparnasse could barely make out a few red strands in the dim light.  
“Jehan, what are you doing here?”, he whispered. Hopefully, the Thénardiers were asleep or too far away to make out their conversation.  
“I heard the news from my father when he came home. I needed to see it with my own two eyes.”  
Montparnasse scrambled to his feet, shaking the exhaustion out of his limbs, and stepping closer to the metal bars, closer to Jehan. They were still as a statue, eyes set on him, unmoving and surprisingly cold. Calculating. Weighing.  
“Did you do it? Did you kidnap and kill these people?”  
“I-“ Montparnasse did not know what to say. He had never lied to Jehan. When he had first broken into their house, they had indulged him, and never refused any visitation afterwards. This was not the right moment to begin telling false truths.  
However, Montparnasse had nothing to do with the kidnappings. His hands were clean of the market organiser’s blood. He didn’t know the man, held no grudge, had no motive. Montparnasse had never killed without reasons, no matter how small, and he would not begin doing so when he had achieved so many things he had always dreamed off: a home, friends, something to look forward to. Montparnasse squared his shoulders and decided to do the smart thing. Under the scrutiny of someone like Jehan, there was nothing to do but tell the truth.  
“I did not kidnap anyone, and I had nothing to do with the man they found in the river.”  
Jehan frowned. Montparnasse felt naked under their gaze.  
“But the things they wrote in the newspapers, in Paris, those are true?”  
Their fingers wrapped around one of the metal bars, pressed their body closer, more closely to Montparnasse, as if they did not want to miss a single muscle of him moving. Montparnasse swallowed dry but did not step back. This was something he had to face. This much he owed to Jehan and the time they had spent together, the time they had taken to get to know him.  
“I don’t know what they wrote about me in the newspaper.”  
“But it’s not impossible that what they _did_ write is true?”  
“We first met when I broke into your house. Will you truly pretend you’ve believed me innocent in life for all this time?”  
Jehan said nothing. Their fingers were still wrapped around the metal bars. For one short moment, one flash of consciousness, Montparnasse thought how easy it would be to grasp their arm, pull their head against the metal, grab hold of their throat and bargain for his freedom with their life on the line. The thought was gone in a blink of Jehan’s eyes.  
“Do not claim to be this naïve, Jehan. Don’t do us this disservice, not to the both of us,” Montparnasse whispered and grabbed the bar next to Jehan’s hand. Not touching, but close.  
“Did you enjoy it?”  
“I sometimes enjoyed the rewards I could reap from it. Never the act itself.” As Montparnasse spoke, Jehan trailed over his hand. Eternally soft, like silk, they closed around his wrist, gently pulled his arm through until Montparnasse’s shoulder laid flat against the icy metal. Jehan pushed his sleeves up as far as possible, which meant slightly lower than Montparnasse’s elbow, and twisted it slightly so the inner part of his forearm faced the ceiling. Light as a feather, Jehan traced the scars on his skin. They were few, but they would never fade. The air was heavy with what Jehan had yet to say, with the words not yet ready to be spoken, to be asked.  
“Never the killing,” Montparnasse whispered. His breath formed a milky white cloud in the air, like a dream passing from imprisonment to freedom  
“Would you do it again?”, Jehan asked. Their eyes looked up again, directly into Montparnasse’s. They did not let go of his wrist and arm.  
“If necessary. Yes, I would.”  
Jehan let go of Montparnasse’s arm and turned around. The door to the outside stayed open when they left. It was a mocking him, an open invitation to escape, place on the other side of a moat he could never cross.  
Montparnasse pulled back his arm and the sleeve down. It was freezing. He had not suffered through conditions like these in an eternity. Truly the bottom of the barrel.  
The ringing of the chains echoed through the cells. What was Jehan doing out there which was so loud? Could they not leave Montparnasse alone in his misery, instead of parading it around in his ears for as long as they could?

It felt like a dream as Jehan reappeared in the doorway, a heavy ring with numerous keys attached to it in their hand. Montparnasse starred at them in wonder, wanted to ask, but they firmly placed a finger on their lips and made him keep silent. With their brows furrowed, concentrated on making as little sound as possible, Jehan went through several keys, putting them inside the lock and trying to turn them. Montparnasse stood still, frozen in place and unable to do anything but follow the small and regular movement of their fingers as they failed once again to open the lock, picked the next key and tried the entire process once more. 

The loud click when they key finally turned rang like a cannonball of liberation. Immediately, Jehan pushed the cell door open and grasped Montparnasse by his wrists, like the handcuffs earlier that day.  
“Swear me you will always be honest. If you lie to me, once, I will never forgive you,” they whispered. Their warm breath whisked over Montparnasse’s skin and slowly thawed his cells one by one.  
“I swear.”  
“Good.” Then they pulled him with them. When they passed the empty desk, Jehan carelessly threw the key bundle on the table. Montparnasse was not given time to think about the different ways Jehan could have made the guard leave their post. Gratitude was all he could silently give.  
Together, they snuck around the building. Behind it, where two horses. With practiced movements, Jehan untied them both from the wall and threw the reins of one of them to Montparnasse.  
“I hope you can ride,” they said, and swung into the saddle with an ease that turned Montparnasse’s stomach, only in a pleasant way.  
“I hope so as well.”  
“Yell if you fall and try to hold on until we’re out of the city.”  
After a few attempts, Montparnasse’s bottom finally found its way into the saddle. Before he could dig his heels into the animal’s sides, Jehan had already taken off. His own riding companion followed automatically. The air wiping into his face was sharp as knives. Never in Montparnasse’s life had pain been this freeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if the inviolability of private homes by legal authorities was already a thing in 1840-ish but I tagged this fic with intuitive historical accuracy, so you cannot hold me accountable for the half-truths that slip into it. But I still made him breach modern-standard privacy laws by the dozen and we forgive him because it is to Montparnasse’s aka our protagonist’s benefit. Yay! (For as long as that lasts, at least).


	9. Beauty can be found in shared Inconveniences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical freedom does not equal to liberation from earthly needs. Montparnasse discovers once more that not everything is as easy as it seems and yet far easier than it used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I'm back with a chapter that I needed to split in two to keep the momentum of posting this fic going. I'm sorry you've had to wait three weeks for an update and will likely have to wait even longer for the next one, but hey, I'm dedicated to finishing this fic so at least you've got that going for you at least. Enjoy the chapter!

Montparnasse had not known how to ride horseback when they had left town and now, a few hours later, he was not sure he ever wanted Jehan to teach him. The night had yet to lift its protective veil and they had already crossed a few kilometres since they started, even though it would probably not be enough, never be enough. Javert did not seem to be the kind of person to forget the face of someone he deemed a criminal, let alone one he had failed to hand over for trial. They should try to flee as far as possible until they fell from their horses from exhaustion or managed to put an ocean between them, but Montparnasse’s thighs ached, and he could barely hold himself upright. How could he be so exhausted when it was the animal beneath him doing all the work?

Next to him, Jehan was silent, stared straight ahead and naturally seemed to follow the rhythm of their horse. Currently, they were walking, trying to preserve their mounts energies in case they ever needed to gallop on short notice again — not that Montparnasse was keen on doing so; once had been enough for him, thank you very much.

Hopefully, Jehan would not come to regret their decision to not only help Montparnasse escape from prison, but also to run away _with_ him. Maybe they had already realized what a mistake this had been and that’s why they didn’t say anything?

The ride continued in silence, nothing but the steady footfall of the horses breaking through the night. Thankfully, the moon shone bright and clear above them, otherwise the horses would have broken their legs a long time ago and brought them all down in their fall.

“Montparnasse?”, Jehan finally asked.

“What is it?” Montparnasse did not dare look at them, once for fear of losing his balance if he turned away from the path his horse was taking and secondly not to look in Jehan’s eyes. The risk of rejection was still not nil. He would not be able to bear seeing the certitude that spending their life with Montparnasse was not worth it in Jehan’s eyes.

“What should we do next?”

“What do you mean?”

“Montparnasse, you do you know how to survive in the wild, right?”

Shit.

Montparnasse did not know what to say. He had not the slightest inkling how to survive outside of city walls. If it hadn’t been for Gavroche and Éponine, he would have died a few days after leaving Paris. It was night, he was freezing, all the muscles in his body including some he had not been aware off until this time ached and they had not packed any provisions for a prolonged trip.

“Montparnasse?”

“No. I do not. I’ve always lived in a city. I’ve never left.”

“Fuck.”

Yes. Fuck. This is exactly how Montparnasse felt in this moment. When he was thrown into prison, he had not expected he would spend the rest of the night lost in the wild, trying not to fall off a horse, and having to admit that he had no practical life skill that could be of help to either him or the person which broke him out of prison. It would be a miracle if they did not die before finding the next town. Where were they even heading? If Montparnasse had to guess, he would have said north according to the direction they had left the town from, but navigating their way in this darkness was hard and there was no way to be sure they had not began riding in circles. 

“Montparnasse.”

“What?” He tried to be calm, to show patience, even though he was exhausted and wanted to kill someone for his lack of planning and preparations. Jehan did not deserve his irrationality or his anger.

“There’s a tree over there. We should stop and rest. We will think about what to do when we’ve slept.”

Indeed, there was the faint and barely distinguishable silhouette of a tree against the dark blue night sky in the direction Jehan was pointing. They would have missed it just an hour ago. It seemed the night as beginning to fade. Had they been riding for this long already?

“Yes, let’s do that.”

The tree was closer than expected, all alone in a vast field. This way, they should be able to see anyone approaching them early, in case Javert had caught up with them or someone tried to rob them.

Montparnasse felt as if the ground was giving way right beneath his feet when he finally dismounted from the horse. Jehan, despite riding for just as long, was all grace and smooth lines as they glided out of the saddle. 

“We should take turns sleeping; avoid being surprised if anyone sneaks up on us.”

“Mh.” Jehan nodded. “I will take the first watch.”

Of course, they would. They were a self-sacrificial idiot, after all.

“No. Go get some rest. I can see you swaying on your feet from here.”

This was a lie. Jehan was not swaying, but they were still holding onto their horse, which gave the suspicious appearance that they were trying to avoid falling over from sheer exhaustion.

“I want to take the first watch.”

“I’m used to being awake late. I’m not tired. Trust me, I would not be able to sleep this early.” This was a faint lie. Montparnasse was incredibly tired, but he was far from exhausted. If he let Jehan take the first watch, he would lie awake the entire time, high strung, incapable of letting them alone with any potential danger. It would take a few more hours without rest until he could fall asleep standing. If he let Jehan take the first watch, he would fall asleep while he was supposed to look out, and this would help neither of them.

“Are you sure?” Jehan had stepped closer, their left hand still holding the reins and their left buried in the horse’s mane.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” They helped Montparnasse lead his horse to the tree, attached the reins to a branch so the animals wouldn’t run away and tugged him down with them, until they were both lying on the ground, Montparnasse leaning against the trunk, half sitting, and Jehan was snuggling against him.

“We should try to get bridles for the horses soon. Or find a way for them to get some good night’s full of sleep as well. They shouldn’t suffer because of us,” Jehan mumbled.

“Mh.” Montparnasse was sure they could feel his hum of approval reverberate through his chest.

Jehan’s breath was like a soothing spring breeze against his neck. The world was freezing, and so was he, but the weight in his arm was more soothing than any hearth could ever hope to be. He would brave Morpheus and keep Jehan safe for the night.

***

They had switched roles at sunset. Jehan could not possibly have gotten enough sleep, but they rose on their own and it took them only a few minutes to persuade them that Montparnasse deserved to sleep as well. He had woken up what seemed to be a few hours later, neck resting against the tree in an uncomfortable position. Jehan was standing a few meters away, watching the horses graze. They had slung both bridles over their shoulder. They were not wearing a coat.

When Montparnasse sat up, the heavy garment slit from his body onto the cold ground. A heavy gush of wind sought its way beneath his coat. He had been lucky they had arrested him while he was outside. Had they broken into his home, Montparnasse would probably have frozen to death, wearing clothes most definitely not suited for the outside or rooms without a hearth.

It was freezing. Montparnasse was surprised he could still move. What was Jehan doing without their proper clothes on.

It seemed Monparnasse’s awakening had caused enough noise to alert them. They turned around and smiled.

Suddenly, all the cold and pain in Montparnasse’s joints was worth it.

“You’re awake. Did you sleep well?” Jehan asked.

“As much as possible considering the circumstances,” Montparnasse grumbled. The ground cracked beneath his fingers when he pushed himself up. It was frozen solid. It was frightening how different, how much more brutal the weather could be once he stepped outside the limits of the city.

“I’m glad. I feel bad I kept you awake for so much longer.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have been able to shut an eye if you had taken the first watch.” On the contrary. Jehan’s weight had been calming, reassuring. At any moment, someone — or worse, Javert — could have found them. Jehan had been warm, Jehan had been Home; if it had been anyone else, Montparnasse would have spent the night, pacing, unable to stay still. Now, he felt surprisingly rested. A dull ache had settled in his bones and muscle, as the night spent on horseback had not gone by without a trace, but now he was ready to face the day.

“Well, I’m glad you were able to afterwards. I enjoyed watching you sleep.”

“You did?” Montparnasse could feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears. If Jehan had wanted to thaw him to liveable temperatures again, they had succeeded.

“Yes. You looked very peaceful. One might even say cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“Of course not.”

Montparnasse tried to be angry at Jehan, but the feeling simply evaporated at the sound of their laughter. It was deep, raspy, and like thunder when a hot summer day finally gets cooled down by a storm. But Jehan was right. There was a certain stillness in his chest since he had gotten to know Jehan, a stillness he had never known before. If before he had been in a tiny boat, thrown from wave to wave without nothing but the burning desire to survive, it seemed as if the sea had finally calmed down and he was allowed to soak in endless rays of sun.

“We should get going. We have to find food,” Jehan said and whistled with both their index and middle fingers. The sound was shrill and high, likely to be heard far and wide across the land. Montparnasse did not know how to do that. The horses turned around and slowly fell into a trot until they finally stopped in front of Jehan. They put on the rains and the saddles, which were hanging on a branch and, just like the night before, helped Montparnasse get onto his horse’s back with a leg up. As soon as his weight settled into the position among the cold leather, Montparnasse’s could feel the exact same muscles burning in his legs, cramped back into the position he had suffered through for several hours before resting, and he felt as if he had never stopped ridding at all.

“Everything okay?”, Jehan asked. Montparnasse nodded and smiled. He hoped the strain in his cheeks could not be seen from below. Smiling, they handed him the reins and walked over to their own horse. They hoisted their left foot into the stirrup, gripped the forward part of the saddle and hoisted themselves up as if they had nothing else for their entire life. Maybe they hadn’t, one could never know with Jehan.

The air was crisp and cold, and it grew even crisper and colder when they spurred their horses on and began their travel for the day. Montparnasse damned the missed opportunity of relaxing this day at home, visiting Jehan during the night once more or celebrating his revenge on the Thénardiers. That plan had backfired and spectacularly so. Hopefully, his arrest and consequent escape had not opened any doors for the pair. He had to put his faith in Javert not wanting to humiliate himself even further by losing not one, but two convicts. However, he still to charge someone for murder and even though Montparnasse, who had been the prime candidate for the position of scapegoat, knew he had not any connection to either the disappearance or the murder, he could not say the same about either the Thénardier with absolute certainty. He had only spent as much time with them as he needed to, and he had never shown any interest in their enterprises except for the ones that could make him money.

It was unlikely that Javert would let the Thénardiers walk. Still, the thought had nestled into the back of Montparnasse’s mind, and he did not like its presence there.

“Stop brooding. You’re free now,” Jehan said, lining up their horse with Montparnasse’s.

“If anything, I’m freezing.”

Montparnasse knew that Jehan did not deserve to have his bad mood taken out on them, especially this early in the morning. But this was just like Paris, all over again. He was once more on the run, helpless, exposed to forces outside of his control and everything he had achieved so far had been in vain because he had lost it in a single moment because another person had more power over him and there was nothing he could have done to contest it.

“Yes, but we’re freezing together.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, while freezing and being exposed to the elements is a sad thing indeed, it is in every aspect better than the alternative. If we weren’t freezing together, right here, right now, you would likely be wasting away in your cell, equally freezing if not more, and all of this alone, with nothing left to keep you company than your own despair. There is warmth to be found in shared inconveniences, you know?”

“Mh.”

Montparnasse had never thought about it like this. The air was still freezing, and his limbs still felt as if they might fall of at any moment, and his stomach was calling out to be fed after hours on end without nourishment, but Jehan was right. This was not like Paris or his escape from the capital, at all. He was not alone.

“Maybe you’re right,” Montparnasse admitted. Jehan laughed.

“Of course I am!” It was the most beautiful sound Montparnasse had ever heard.

The warmth Montparnasse found in his inconveniences and suffering shared with Jehan did nothing to stop their growth. As the sun slowly rose in the sky, until it was shining straight down on their path, his hunger rose to the surface until he was pretty sure there was nothing else in the world he could think about. It had been a long time since he had suffered hunger, true Hunger, _Hunger_ in its most primal state and he hated it as he had never hated anything in his life. Montparnasse was no good man, he had done many horrible things in his life, both to people who deserved and to those who didn’t, but this was nothing anyone could ever deserve. Worst of all, he knew it would not stop. The more time past, the more his Hunger would increase, until it began to eat Montparnasse’s own meat of his bones, until there was nothing else left of him. Even if he were to find something to eat, it was only a matter of time until the Hunger came back, and his suffering began all over again. He had been born into Hunger, and he would never escape. It was the unterminated applause in his life. The time between each hit might grow longer, but it would never finish, not until his heart stopped beating and he was buried 2 meters underground.

How could Jehan survive it?

They were still riding next to him. Their face had grown red but gaunt, as if it would have been pale had it not been for the sun beating down on them and the exhaustion shooting through their cells. But through all of this, their eyes shone clear, as if their goal was just out of reach, waiting behind the horizon, just a few more meters, a few more strides until they would find what their heart had always longed for.

They looked free.

When they turned their head, it took all of Montparnasse’s might to hold his breath, take in the boundless enthusiasm in their eyes one last time before it would inevitably disappear as soon as they looked at him.

Jehan’s gaze stayed just the same, shiny, bright, and _alive_.

“I really hope we find something to eat soon. I’m starving,” they shouted, trying to cover the sound of hooves clacking against the frozen earth and the wind that had begun to pick up not long ago, only strengthened by their speed. Montparnasse could only nod. Even if they saw an animal, they did not know how to hunt, the plane did not indicate anything resembling civilisation and at this time of year, the chances of finding berries or any edible plans were scarce. All Montparnasse could do was hope that luck was on their side or Jehan would have helped him escape only to perish in the wild, which had achieved absolutely nothing.

“Hey, Jehan,” he shouted. His throat ached and he was unsure if they had even heard him. Thankfully, Jehan turned around.

“What?”

“If we don’t find something to eat… Thank you for breaking me out!”

Once more, Jehan’s smile erupted like the sun above the horizon, magnificent and blinding.

“It was my pleasure. We will find something to eat, and then you better tell me all the stories you have about living in Paris!” They laughed, again, and their horse fell into a steady gallop, leaving Montparnasse behind them; the only trace they would have left in warmer and drier weather would have been a cloud of dust. Montparnasse leaned over his horse’s neck, breathed in the warm air from the coat and let himself be carried, slowly balancing from left to right to left in tact with the animal’s walking rhythm. He did not have a single ounce of energy left to signal his mount to go any faster if it was not naturally inclined to follow its companion, which did not seem to be the case.

The Hunger was eating him alive, but at least he was not alone.

The sun was slowly beginning to set and the sky turning indigo. After Jehan had slowed down again and waited for Montparnasse, they were now once more riding side by side. He was quite sure it would be impossible for him to stand up tomorrow, let alone walk and the first animal that found him would get a free feast for breakfast.

“Parnasse.” Jehan slightly shook him at the shoulder. Montparnasse looked up and spit out a few horse hairs.

“What?”, he mumbled.

“Look, there’s a light.” Their finger was pointing to the horizon.

Indeed, in the far distance were two small specks of light. The were bright, and warm, yellowish in colour, almost as if a fire was burning.

“This means there are people there! Maybe they can share some food with us! We’ll tell them we were robbed and had to cross the fields to escape or something like that. But people means food!”

Montparnasse felt like he had stumbled into an unsettling déjà vu of his first meeting with Gavroche, Éponine and the Thénardiers. But Montparnasse was a beggar, and his situation did not allow him to refuse for the mere fact that it brought up less than pleasant memories.

It felt like hours until Montparnasse could finally see the details surrounding the lights. It was a house, neither overtly big, nor small enough to suspect a hermit was living there. It was surrounded by a fence, which seemed to go on for eternity, or at least so far that Montparnasse could not see its end in the slowly setting darkness. The light came from windows on the ground floor. There were shadows moving behind them. This sight spread warmth and seemed homely. Before Montparnasse could even wrap his head around what they could possibly do next — the mere idea to find other people, let alone an entire house, in the nowhere they had travelled through had seemed so absurd he had not wasted any time thinking about what would happen if they did — Jehan had already lifted themselves out of the saddle and opened the door of the fence. It blended so seamlessly into the rest of the wood, Montparnasse could not even have guessed it was there.

“What are you doing?”, he hissed, let himself slide — fall would have been the more appropriate term if he was being honest, which he was not — from the saddle and tried his best to keep up with Jehan, while trying to get his horse to follow him.

“I’m going to ask them if we can sleep here tonight. And tomorrow morning, maybe whoever is living here can point us in the direction of the nearest road.”

“Why would they accept total strangers into their house? Especially two vagabonds like us? Jehan, don’t you͢-“ It was too late. Jehan had already hammered their fist with full force against the heavy wooden door. Its bang resonated like the world ending through the empty night. Montparnasse held his breath. Nothing good could come out of a lone house in the middle of an empty field.

The door squeaked when it opened. The next moment, the barrel of a hunting rifle was mere centimetres away from their face.

“Who’s there?”, a deep voice asked. Under other circumstances, circumstances where he was stronger, less tired, and did not need to beg for food, Montparnasse would have already drawn a knife and be in the motion of using it. Instead, he was stuck behind them, holding a horse’s reins in his hand, stuck with the curse of staying still for nothing he could do would be faster than the bullet threatening to rip Jehan’s face into thousand pieces. Instead, all he could do was stare in horror as Jehan stayed perfectly calm in the face of visible immediate death.

“Good evening, Monsieur. We are incredibly sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but we have gotten lost and had nothing to eat for the last two days. When we saw your house and that the lights were still on, we were hoping you would be so kind as to maybe have a warm place to sleep for tonight? We do not wish to disturb you and we will be on our way first things tomorrow, but we will likely get much further if we manage to get a good night of rest in the meantime.”

To Montparnasse’s surprise, the rifle was lifted away from Jehan’s face and he could breathe slightly easier. How had they managed to hold such a theatrical monolog when they could have died at moment’s notice? They had not even practiced!

Now that the most immediate threat seemed to be out of the way, Montparnasse could take a better look at the person standing in the doorway. It was an older man, in what seemed to be his early sixties. He had gray hair which had once been dark brown or even black and the first streaks of white were already growing through his full beard and his roots were fading into his light skin. His imposing figure and stance were in no fact diminished by the fact that they had clearly surprised him as he was wearing a long woollen nightgown and seemed to have been on his way to bed before Jehan demanded his attention.

“Papa, who is it?”, a clear and high voice called from inside the door. Without taking his eyes from Jehan — Montparnasse was quite sure the man was paying attention to him as well — nor taking his hands from the riffle which he was still holding, as if he might need it at moments notice, the old man shouted back.

“Stay where you are and don’t come out!”

Then, silence. This was the edge between worlds, where Jehan and Montparnasse could stay on their side of the rift and fulfil the future he had foreseen for them, succumbing to a starving, cruel death, or they could take their chances, take a step forward and either fall into the space between or find a new home, to which they could not anticipate how they fit into. The man’s gaze was dark, like a wild animal blocking the way to their lair, and maybe that’s what he was. The house he was living in stood in the middle of nowhere, he had come to the door with a hunting rifle, and there was no method to anticipate what he would do next. Heavy thumping resonated from inside the house, as if a bear were running down the stairs. Montparnasse could feel his horse’s heavy breathing in his neck. At least one thing was keeping him warm in this glacial anticipation.

“Papa, what are you doing?”

A face with dark skin and curly hair, the light from inside the house reverberating around her head like a halo, appeared over the man’s shoulder.

“Cosette, I told you to stay inside!” The man in the doorway turned around but the rifle stayed pointed to the outside, not in direction of the girl, even if it looked like this led to a very uncomfortable shoulder position.

“But Papa, I-“

“Mademoiselle, we are but mere two travellers who have lost our way and have not eaten for several days. We were hoping we could find some good souls in this house who would be so kind as so give us shelter and a place to sleep until tomorrow morning.”

Montparnasse could not quite see Jehan’s face from his position behind them, but he was sure they were wearing their most innocent expression, desolating smile, visible enough in the dark while small enough not to arise suspicion of conning.

The next moment, the girl had taken the rifle out of the man’s hand and was once more pointing its barrel right between Jehan’s eyes.

“Are you telling the truth or is this simply a ploy to rob people of their so far calm and peaceful life?”

If Jehan said the wrong thing, if they moved a single muscle the wrong way, they would die, and Montparnasse would be done for.

“No.”

“Good.” She lowered the rifle, passed it back to the man who had first opened the door. He stood in the doorway, grumbling, but simply rested the butt of the gun on the ground and rested slightly on it. Jehan followed the girl into the house. The man starred at Montparnasse.

“These horses also need a place to stay the night, I guess?”

Montparnasse was still starring into the now empty hallway Jehan and the girl had disappeared into. He needed a few seconds to fully grasp what the man had said. Even then, he only managed to nod. The man sighed.

“Well, let me get some shoes on my feet and I will show you.”

Only a few moments later, he stepped out of the door. The rifle had disappeared inside the house. Montparnasse had not moved an inch. The man took Jehan’s horse by the reins — the animal had not moved an inch either since its rider had disappeared from its line of sight — and began marching into the darkness. He was still wearing his night gown.

After a few steps, he turned around.

“Are you coming?”

Montparnasse hastened to follow. He barely missed stumbling over his own feet and laying down with his face flat against the earth. There was no way for him to know where the man was leading him. All he could do was follow and trust him no to be murdered alone and in cold blood. If that happened, it would all be Jehan’s fault. Why did they immediately go after the girl with the gun and leave Montparnasse alone with the man with the rifle?

As it turned out, this man was leading him to a small wooden hut on the back of the house. There was already a horse standing there, munching on what seemed to be hay. The man took a rope from the wall, cut off to long parts with an axe and tied some knots into them. The third horse, whose home they had just intruded into, did not pay them any more attention. While Montparnasse was standing still and feeling completely useless, but unable to bring up the energy to change anything about it, the man took of the two bridles and saddles from the horses, put on the improvised head-collar he had just made out of rope and led them into the small box. It would be cold in the night, but with three bodies and with a roof over their head, they would have a good night, and this was not even accounting for the fresh hay.

The man gripped Montparnasse by the arm and led him back to the house. This was necessary, for he did not think he would have managed to take a single step without falling over and asleep right there.

“Don’t worry, Cosette is a fantastic host. You’ll be as good as new tomorrow. And if you need anything for the road, just tell us, and we’ll see how we can help. It’s not often we get visitors, especially not in this season. By the way, I am Jean Valjean and the girl you just saw is my daughter Cosette.”

“I’m Montparnasse and the person you just saw was Jehan.” Montparnasse’s mouth felt dry like sandpaper. He truly needed something to eat and to drink, just anything to give his body energy and the message that it was not yet time to shut down all life necessary functions.

“Nice to meet you. Do not worry, I’m sure your friend is already enjoying a hearty meal and you’ll get to join them and then all of your worries will be over, at least for tonight.”

Montparnasse could only hope so. But if he looked at the situation and at all the damn luck they had had, he could see a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was far closer than he had anticipated at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, did I ever tell that I suck at writing romances and it’s not something I’m particularly interested in? I love the relationship Montparnasse and Jehan have in this story and it’s really fun to write but I still have the feeling I’m jumping through it instead of showing a nice development. 
> 
> Last but not least, I did not expect this chapter to start with 3 thousand words of Jehanparnasse being fucking lost as soon as they touch a single strand of actual nature, so the content for this chapter was originally supposed to be only one half of the complete 9th chapter (which I decided to cut in half) and in conclusion this fic will have 13 chapters in total (if I’m lucky and don’t have to cut other chapters in two as well.   
> Also, this was the week I noticed I do not like ending chapters in cliffhangers any more, which is the greatest character development I have ever and likely ever will go through. Anything afterwards will simply go downhill.


	10. When the Past catches up with the wrong Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse and Jehan eat some cold soup and learn that there is joy and hope in simplicity. Chance seems to be somewhat in their favour and unexpected connections are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! The semester is done and I really hope to wrap this story up as quickly as possible now that I have the time to do so. It's not like I've not kept you waiting for long enough.   
> This chapter is neither proof read nor edited nor beta-read or anything of the sort and as english is not my primary language, if you notice any grammar or ortography mistakes, please tell me so I can correct them!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

­When Montparnasse woke up the next morning, he felt as if everything that had happened the night before had been but a dream. When he had finally stepped inside the house with Valjean, into a blessing warmth without being overwhelmingly hot, Cosette had already served two bowls of soup, one of which Jehan had been eating and they seemed to have been caught up in conversation when they were interrupted. The soup was cold and both Valjean and Cosette apologized for not being able to give them more, at least to heat up their food but to Montparnasse, there had never been anything better. Not when he had lived in Josephine and Annabelle’s house, none of the sweets some of Madame Brilal’s more loyal and generous patrons had sometimes given her in addition to payment and which Montparnasse had occasionally been allowed to eat, when they weren’t to her liking; these were all illusions, nothing but shadows in comparison to this cold, already slightly coagulating mess which weighed heavily in Montparnasse’s stomach. If this was the last meal he ate, he would die happily.

Jehan had dragged their chair closer to Montparnasse’s and leaned on his shoulder as soon as they had finished their meal. Though it would not appear obvious to anyone else, they had been famished, barely saying a word while they slowly ate. Anytime else Montparnasse had been able to see them dine, they had made conversation in the meantime, always entertaining everyone else around them, asking question and telling whatever came through their mind until nearly everyone’s food had grown cold. This time, they had been quiet and pressed against his side as if they were a cat. The escape and long travel had left its traces on them as well, so it seemed. Montparnasse had felt obligated to make conversation instead, but Cosette always gently pushed him to eating, until his bowl was empty as well. Valjean had disappeared as soon he eaten two spoonfuls and Montparnasse had not known where to.

If he had been able to, Montparnasse would have fallen asleep at the table this instant, without waiting any longer. Instead, Cosette had stood up, grabbed both their bowls and put them underwater in a big wooden container. This was the moment when Valjean had stepped back into the room.

“Ah, Papa, there you are.” Cosette had turned to Jehan and Montparnasse. “You two, come with me. You must be exhausted and deserve a good night of sleep.”

In Montparnasse’s opinion, it had been a great idea and he stood up, only to nearly fall on the cold floor. The food had sat heavily in his stomach, but in a good way, the kind that meant that he had survived and would get to live another day. Without warning, Cosette had grabbed him by the arm and helped him stay upright. She was surprisingly strong, or maybe Montparnasse was simply too weak from several days of horse riding without the necessary food to help him survive such an ordeal.

Slowly, they had walked up the stairs. Jehan had been behind them, holding onto the railing, but still standing upright on their own strength. Valjean had once again been nowhere to be seen, but Montparnasse had heard water splash and slosh around in the kitchen they had just left. He paid it no mind any further. Exhaustion had been taking over the entirety of his consciousness.

Cosette had led them into a small room, with one bed, a dresser and what seemed to be a spinning wheel, otherwise bare of any furniture. She had looked embarrassed.

“I am sorry, we only have one bed to offer to you. It is simple, but the covers will keep you warm even though-“

“It’s perfect. Thank you very much for your hospitality.” Montparnasse had done his best to smile, even though he felt it looked more like a grimace.

“Well, I will leave you then. I hope you sleep well.”

As soon as Cosette had stepped out of the room, Jehan crumbled onto the straw mattress. Now that his support was gone, Montparnasse had no choice but to follow their example. Whatever had happened next could not have been important enough to remember because when he opened his eyes the next morning, he was greeted by icy cold swirling around his nose and blissful warmth where his body was covered by the single blanket, without any memory of falling asleep. Even warmer hands had slung themselves around his middle and slight weight pressed itself around his back.

With some difficulty as not to wake Jeahn, Montparnasse writhed until he could turn around and look at them. They were still sleeping and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever witnessed. If he was lucky, he would get to see it every morning until the end of his life and knowing Jehan, they would only grow kinder, more passionate, more _beautiful_ as time went on.

As it seemed, Montparnasse had not been careful enough in his movements. Jehan scrunched their nose, blinked once or twice, looked around until their eyes focused on Montparnasse and they smiled. It was as if a gun had gone off in his chest, a gun filled with bullets of safety, security, flowers and sunshine.

“Good morning,” they said. Their cheek was still pressed against the bed, so it came out as more of a mumbled whisper, but Montparnasse imagined this was what the holy ringing of church bells other people had described sounded like.

“Good morning,” he whispered back.

Jehan’s smile grew wider, softer.

“Good morning,” they said again. Montparnasse laid his hands over theirs, still wrapped around his waist.

The house was quiet, as if they were completely alone in this world. Nothing to run from, nothing to fear. It was very different from the many times Montparnasse had woken up alone, very different from waking up lonely.

It was a nice feeling, if he was being honest.

“What are you thinking about?”, Jehan whispered.

“I’m thinking that I like this,” he said. Jehan slapped his shoulder.

“Well, I sure hope so.”

Montparnasse laughed quietly. It felt like they were alone, but somewhere in the house were the two others who had taken them in in the middle of the night — Cosette and Jean Valjean. It would be best not to wake them up. They were guests, after all, and if Montparnasse had learned one thing over the years, it was never to take hospitality for granted. The memory how both of them had held a gun to Jehan’s head without the simplest semblance of hesitation only served to cement this rule in his consciousness.

“So this is how it is going to be?”, Jehan asked. Montparnasse nodded. This was so peaceful. He could go right back to sleep. He _wanted_ to go right back to sleep.

“We should probably get up,” said Jehan. “It would surely make a bad impression if we slept away the entire day, without making a single appearance outside of this room.”

Jehan was right. They had said they only needed a place to stay for the night, and while this was certainly true and Montparnasse could not fully rest until he knew there was half a country between him and Javert, or that the man had given up his hunt, no matter how unlikely the second option seemed, he wished for little more than to fall back into the bed, close his eyes, and sleep for the rest of the day.

This had never happened to him before. No matter how spent he had been, no matter how long he had gone without sleep or a good meal, his body had always found the energy to move and do what needed to be done if the situation called for it. Was this what getting old felt like?

With great effort, Montparnasse swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was ice cold and it took all his will not to retreat his feet the moment they came in contact with the ground. Clenching his teeth and resisting against his muscles crying out as he charged them with more and more weight while standing up, Montparnasse finally managed to get into a vertical position. He would have liked to stretch, to feel his control over his entire body, but he knew that it would cause more harm than good if he forced himself to any unnecessary movements. Jehan did not appear to have any similar problems. They simply looked slightly rumpled, their hair flowing all over and still in the same clothes they had worn ever since they had broken Montparnasse out of the cell. They followed his gaze from their toes to their shoulders and then looked at him.

“I know. Trust me, I did not expect to look like this for the beginning of our grand adventure. Or to smell, if we’re already pointing out all the problems.”

Montparnasse held back from confessing that compared to the things he had needed to endure in his past, Jehan still smelled like a fresh summer’s breeze.

“What _grand adventure_?”, he asked instead. Jehan looked slightly embarrassed.

“Well, it’s not as if my father was the kind of free thinking man who gladly let his child wander of alone, no matter how far. It was already a great victory when he deemed me responsible and mature enough to go into town without his supervision. He would never have let me discover anything outside without him, and he was not ready to leave his post. So this is… my grand adventure. We will both find our place in this world. Together.”

“I know my place in this world.”

“Do you?” Now, Jehan was back to their old self. Cocked eyebrow, self-assured and arms crossed in front of their chest, they looked at Montparnasse. “Do you truly?”

Montparnasse did not deign to answer that question. Of course he knew what his place in the world was! He had spent his entire life being told by everyone above him how much further down he belonged, this was not something he was ready to forget anytime soon. Sometimes, he could simply shake his head at Jehan, or at least do so internally.

“Let’s go downstairs. Maybe someone is awake already, and we should look after the horses.”

Montparnasse had known the house had not been empty. It still came as a surprise to come down the stairs and see Cosette lounging in an armchair, an old one by the looks of it, a book in her hands which she immediately put down when Montparnasse and Jehan entered the room.

“You are awake,” she said.

“Yes, please excuse us for taking so long,” said Jehan. Montparnasse was holding their hand and the longer he was standing in the room, the tighter his grip turned. If he let go of Jehan now, he would fall to the ground. Screw politeness and conventions, he should have continued to sleep like he wanted to.

Cosette frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but a deep voice beat her to it.

“If we are being honest, we did not expect you two to wake up before sunset.”

Jehan turned around and dragged Montparnasse with them. Standing in the doorway was Valjean. He was holding a wooden tray with two bowls which seemed to contain something hot enough to emit steam into the air. His air was tied back and he was not wearing his nightgown this time, having opted for thick, woollen trousers and a knitted cardigan instead. He put the tray on the table and pointed at Montparnasse.

“Boy, you should sit down. You look as if you might lose consciousness any second.”

If Montparnasse was being honest, this was exactly how he felt. The walk down the stairs should have been nothing and yet he was out of breath and his legs suddenly seemed to be made of dough, unable to hold him up. Cosette jumped up and slowly led him to the chair she had been sitting in. It was nice, already warm. Montparnasse melted into the cushions like a piece of butter in the sun. Yes, he should definitely sleep and this was the perfect place to do so.

Something nudging him in the shoulder kept him from doing so.

“Boy, don’t close your eyes. You need to eat first.”

Slowly, Montparnasse opened his eyes again. He did not know when he had closed them. Valjean was leaning over him, resting his hand on his shoulder, a worried look on his face. He lifted one of the bowls towards Montparnasse’s face.

“You looked like you were a few feet from Death’s door. One small meal and a few hours of sleep will not entirely put you back onto your feet again.”

There was a wooden spoon in the bowl, almost standing straight up. Montparnasse grabbed the wood and almost burned his thumb when he plunged his finger into hot sludge. How was he supposed to know it would be filled to the brim?

“Careful-“, said Cosette, still standing to the side of the armchair, but it was already too late. Montparnasse was blowing on his finger. It hurt, but Valjean was right. He was not used to going several days without food anymore, especially ones which were as physically tiring as the ones since he had been thrown into jail, and it was an absolute necessity for him to eat anything substantial and truly filling. How was Jehan even still standing upright? With great difficulty and slower than he would have liked, Montparnasse managed to get a secure grip on the bowl and lifted the first spoonful to his lips. It was oatmeal, seemingly sweetened with something akin to apple, if Montparnasse identified the taste correctly. It felt heavy as a rock when Montparnasse swallowed it, Jehan, Valjean and Cosette keeping a close eye on him. Montparnasse ate a second spoonful. It was good. It was exactly what he needed. The only thing he would have liked in this moment was for everyone to stop staring at him. Cosette walked over to the table and grabbed the second bowl, which she handed over to Jehan.

“You should eat as well.” Her voice was soft and silky, like a creek flowing through the forest on a mild summer day. Or at least how Montparnasse imagined a creek would sound like. Jehan readily and gladly accepted the offer and began eating as well. Valjean and Cosette continued watching them eat. After a few more spoons of the oatmeal, Montparnasse didn’t mind as much anymore. With every bite he ate, the door to the hunger he had begun to bury deep inside him over the last few days began to open a bit wider, until the bowl was empty and he felt like he might explode if someone merely nudged him in the side. Never had he felt this full, so content, not even when Madame Grimal had given him his first full meal in years. Something was different this time, Montparnasse simply could not put his finger on _what_.

“Thank you for the generous meal,” said Jehan and put the bowl down on the table. Montparnasse hastened to follow suit and thanked Cosette and Valjean as well, who both simply waved it off.

“It was not much we could offer you, but we are glad we can be of help to you,” said Valjean.

“You were in luck to have found our house, especially in the dark like this. Had you missed it, who knows what would have become of you!”, Cosette continued. “We are the only people in a radius of several kilometres. You’d likely have starved before you could have found someone else to help you.”

“Yes, speaking of which, what were you doing in the middle of nowhere, alone with nothing but two horses, nearly starved to death and without proper winter clothes?” Valjean had turned much more serious and inquired them with scrutiny. Montparnasse looked at Jehan, but said nothing.

“We-“, Jehan threw a short glance in Montparnasse’s direction before turning back to Valjean, “We were running from my father. He does not agree with me about Montparnasse and-“ They hesitated again. Montparnasse looked at Valjean and Cosette to evaluate their reaction. What Jehan just said could be interpreted any possible way. Admitting to being on the run from one’s parent, _the father_ no less, was not guaranteed to win their favour.

Valjean’s gaze was soft, full of warmth and pity.

“I understand. There is no need to explain it further. Welcome in our humble home, you are welcome to stay until you feel stronger again and have decided how to continue on your travel.”

Montparnasse starred at Valjean. This was it? No more questions? They did not have to leave this day?

“You should both take some more rest, especially you,” Valjean pointedly looked at Montparnasse, who felt nailed to the armchair under his gaze, as if the slightest unnecessary movement would bring the wrath of an angry mother hen upon him. He simply nodded.

“And Cosette already fed your horses, so there is no need for you to worry about them.”

“Yes, they are currently on the field on the northern side of the house. I will get them back inside when the sun sets, feel free to come with me.” Cosette’s smile was warm, her teeth shining brightly against her dark skin. The candle behind her head threw a ring of light around and through her strongly curled hair, as if it were a halo. Maybe Montparnasse truly did die and found himself in some sort of heavenly after-life. It seemed unrealistic for anyone to open their arms to strangers like Jehan and him without asking for anything in return.

Next to the candle was a doll, leaned against the wall. It was old, some of the paint on her face was either faded or beginning to flake off. It had a light blue dress on, the colour also mostly faded, likely from both years of being handled and hours spent in the sunlight. A cream coloured bonnet sat in luscious brown locks. The colours reminded Montparnasse of the clothes he had sewn for Éponine. He wondered what he was doing. By now, the three Thénardier children could be anywhere. Maybe they had already found their two younger brothers? Or they had been led to nothing but a dead end and had to resign themselves to giving up their quest for the search of a new home, a more permanent place to stay. Now that he thought of it, Montparnasse had not had the time to think about his friend in depth ever since they had parted ways. He had promised Gavroche that they would see each other again, so he could get his hat back, but now he was not so sure. His newfound status as a fugitive, in company of a police inspector’s child no less, would make something like this difficult. If the Thénardier children ever found their way back into the town, no one would be able to give them any information about his whereabouts if they were even inclined to do so, which was rather unlikely.

“Would you like another bowl?” Cosette’s singing voice pulled Montparnasse out of his thoughts. She was holding his bowl — he had not noticed how she had taken it out of his hand — and was looking at him expectantly. It was a good question. Montparnasse knew that he was far from back to his original strength and eating more would likely help him improve his physical state, but the oatmeal he had just eaten still laid heavily in his stomach and he doubted another bowl of it for breakfast would accomplish nothing but make him retch up everything he had in his stomach. He smiled.

“No, thank you. Maybe later. I do not think I could handle even more at the moment.”

“Mmh. You’re probably right.” Cosette pulled the bowl closer to her body. “You should probably drink something.”

“Right.” Montparnasse clawed his fingers into the chair and attempted to get up.

“No! Don’t worry, I will get all of us something to drink. You should just wait here.” Cosette made a calming gesture, as if she was gently pushing Montparnasse back into the chair without actually touching him. He could barely suppress the breathless sigh which escaped him as he let himself fall back into the old cushions. He had not expected his body to have taken such a beating. How had he not noticed it sooner. It was as if his body was screaming with a thousand soundless voices and he could do nothing but listen and wait for them to grow quiet once more. 

After Cosette gently wrapped his hands around a clay mug filled with cold water, it was as if he was swallowing ice in its liquid form. He was inside, safe, and Jehan was with him. It was a strange thought, unsettling, turning rounds before sitting down and jumping up moments later, but it did not leave; everything would turn out well in the end.

***

A few days later, Montparnasse learned that the water in the house did not feel like liquid ice without reason. When the burning ache in his body had subdued somewhat and he could move around as he used to again, he was set on helping anyway he could. Both he and Jehan deeply appreciated the opportunity to stay in the house, to live there for the time being, especially as it had begun to snow and it would only be so much more dangerous to travel until the weather had cleared up somewhat and they still did not know where to go or what to do. Cosette had taken him to the back of the kitchen, where a tall barrel stood. She took a hammer and an ice pickle hanging next to it on the wall and began hacking away huge chunks of ice in earnest. Quickly, a few beads of sweat appeared on her brow, despite the frigid weather. She packed the ice inside a clay carafe and handed the tools to Montparnasse.

“We still need a lot more if we want to prepare dinner.”

Without hesitation, Montparnasse began to put all his force behind every hit to the ice. It was cold, and he was freezing, yet sweat began to cling to his clothes after only a few movements. This was grueling. He could not imagine having do to it every winter, several times each day, for as many years as Cosette and Valjean had been living in this reclusive house, all alone.

The dinner that evening was the greatest meal Montparnasse had ever eaten.

As it turned out, Valjean and Cosette had not always lived in the small, secluded cottage. It was only after she had left a school led by nuns where Valjean had been employed as a gardener that they had decided it would be easier and safer for both of them to leave the city, which had led them to their idyllic though demanding life in the wild. At least that was how Montparnasse would describe it. There was no store nearby, they cultivated their own vegetables and fruits and every two weeks, they would have to make the trip to the nearest village to sell some wool Cosette had made or some other things so they could afford meat or anything else they might need, depending on the season. This was the reason why they had a horse and a small carriage to carry everything.

Since Montparnasse and Jehan stayed with them, only Valjean had gone, leaving them in Cosette’s care and under her supervision. This did not mean they spent their days doing nothing, but it was regular work and peaceful enough to chatter and learn about their respective histories. Jehan knew many stories, both fictional and self-lived, or so they claimed. But as it turned out, Cosette was the one with the biggest mystery, or, if one were to ask Montparnasse later on, the most surprising one.

“Well, I cannot believe I used to do this kind of work when I was a child. I had to carry entire buckets of water through the forest for the family that was taking care of me, or sweep the floors of their inn. I wonder what became of them. They had three children, or rather two, they were thankfully very cherished, but could be quite mean if they wanted to. Madame Thénardier was pregnant when Papa came to get me. That was the night he bought me the doll, the one you can see on the mantle.”

While Montparnasse’s head was turning around to follow the direction Cosette was pointing at, the wheels in his mind where already turning and running hot from friction. Suddenly, everything fit together perfectly, but it seemed far too unlikely for his conclusion to be true.

“Cosette, what was the family’s name you just said?”, he asked. He had to make sure, after all.

“Thénardier, if I recall correctly. Why?”

“Your name does not happen to be Euphrasie or something of the like, does it?”

Cosette froze in her movement and turned around to face Montparnasse completely. Jehan was quickly looking from one other the other, clearly lacking knowledge about the topic of discussion.

“How do you know that?”, Cosette asked.

“I- I might answer some of your questions about how they are. One of the reasons why we are on the run has to do with the Thénardiers, the parents, at least.”

Cosette sat down, looking at Montparnasse expectantly. She did not say anything and waited instead, waited for him to tell the story in his own way and rhythm. Jehan sat next to her, a curious look on his face. And so Montparnasse told everything, or at least most of it.

He told the story of how he had met the small family after leaving Paris, the two parents and their three children, about Gavroche who likely was the child Cosette had not gotten to know, Azelma, and of course Éponine, who could have been her older brother had they stayed together. He told about how they had changed, what Éponine had told Montparnasse about Cosette and her time with the Thénardiers, about the fight and falling out between Éponine and Thénardier, between the children and the parents, about the two brothers the three elder siblings were now looking for. He told the story of Thénardiers treason, how he stabbed Montparnasse in the back and accused him of crimes he didn’t commit.

Montparnasse did not tell everything. There were some things he could omit, some things Cosette did not need to know, at least not yet. Maybe one day, if they kept in contact long enough. Through looks alone, Montparnasse hoped he achieved to tell Jehan about his intentions. They did not say a word or interrupted him in any other way, so even if they had not understood his message, they must have read the room well enough to understand which additional input was not necessary.

Cosette listened, patiently, only asking follow-up questions once or twice. When Montparnasse was done, she leaned back and said nothing for a long time.

“So many things change. It’s been so long, I didn’t even realize. Azelma and Éponine… Well, I’m glad they managed to find their own way, or so it seems.” Cosette smiled, sadness pulling the corners of her lips upwards. “I wish I could speak to them once more. There is so many things I don’t know about this time. I never read these letters Éponine told you about, do you know that? I wish I could ask- him about them.”

She locked eyes with Montparnasse, back straight and muscled tensed. Her hands were rolled into fists, bunching up the fabric of her apron.

“I know you way to the future is uncertain, but if you were to meet them again- or even just one of them… could to tell them about me? And ask them to come visit me here if possible?”

Cosette seemed sober, serious. There was more history behind her gaze than she had told Montparnasse, more knowledge and thought about the relationship from two people who only knew each other from childhood and the fixed image this had left them than he could ever guess.

Montparnasse looked back and nodded.

“Of course.”


	11. The Past knocking on the Door, taking the form of Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicions get raised and resolved. Jehan and Montparnasse have a snowfight that does not end well. Someone they would rather not see again knocks on the door of the house.

Montparnasse knew Jehan well and he was intimately aware of this fact. Nonetheless, it was shocking to discover how much he could still learn. The more time they spent together, the fuller the vision of Jehan got inside his head, like a two dimensional painting slowly growing into a statue until it finally turned human. With each passing day, each time he laid his eyes on them, the image Montparnasse had of Jehan inside his mind palled compared to reality and was exchanged for another one, slightly more lifelike, slightly closer to reality, but still oh so fantastical and insufficient compared to the real hero which had conquered his being.

“What are you thinking about?”, they asked, sprawled on the floor in front of the chimney. They always tried to keep the embers smouldering so they could start the fire anew if the need arose, but since they only had a limited supply of wood, they had all agreed that whenever someone was alone in the room, this person would have to sit especially close to the fireplace as not to waste any of the heat. Montparnasse and Jehan most certainly were not alone, as they were together, but Montparnasse would certainly not gather the energy to free Jehan from his embrace. It was much warmer this way, so there was truly no logical reason why he should not lie down close to the fireplace, arms wrapped around Jehan, his nose buried in the crook of their neck, their scent invigorating him every single time he breathed.

“Isn’t it obvious?”, he said.

“Never. You’re like a statue which wears a hundred different expressions and the connection between your brain or heart and your face is not as direct as I would sometimes like to be. So, what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that we could stay like this for all eternity and I would die a happy man.”

“If it’s for all eternity, you cannot die.”

“I can as long as my corpse continues this embrace until we fall to dust.”

“Montparnasse, do you want me to lie on the cold floor in the hands of a rotting corpse until I die?”

Montparnasse laughed. Jehan had to feel the vibrations in his chest through their back.

“Are you denying that the idea intrigues you?”

“There can be found a certain beauty and poetry in it, I suppose. I can imagine more boring images to leave as my legacy.”

“Mh, I thought you would.” Despite their soft appearance and their penchants for idealistic visions of their future, Jehan had taken a liking to the more sinister and morbid aspects of existence. They had said it was impossible for them to appreciate one aspect of something if they did not learn to appreciate the others as well, and what was death but the other side of the medal that was life, no matter how wretched or horrible it might appear to the unsuspicious onlooker. Montparnasse had hummed an ambiguous sound in response, neither approval nor rejection, and decided not to tell them about the pain life had caused him when it had thrust itself upon his blade, bleeding over his hands until it had escaped its mortal form to flow over the Parisian pavement. Montparnasse had not told Jehan how he had embraced this pain and found peace in learning to control it, to wield it at his command, something even the most righteous of blazing figures could not have made him give up. For one short second, Montparnasse wondered what Enjolras was doing in this moment, if he was still alive or if he had fallen victim to the cause he so cherished, fighting his way to the top of the mountain made of corpses that was the capital, with the only goal in mind to destroy it, not seeing that all he did was build it taller.

Looking back, it would never have worked out between them. All he could do was hope that the other man, the one who had been more beautiful than Montparnasse, made him happy and could give Enjolras whatever he had been looking for in a relationship. This way, they could both be happy and content.

While they continued to lie in front of the hearth, which was growing colder by the minute, the front door opened loudly, banging against the wall and announcing Valjean’s and Cosette’s return.

“Well, you two are having a good time,” Cosette said, feet full of snow which she dragged through the room and dumbed an armful of wood into the metal basket next to the fireplace. She took two logs and put them on the last glimmering embers.

“Aren’t you cold?”, she asked and looked at Jehan, as if they were the ones responsible for their common wellbeing in Cosette and Valjean’s absence. Montparnasse felt slightly offended by this out of principle, but he was not going to make a fool of himself by acting on it and calling her out on her clear misjudgement of both their characters.

“I am. Are you cold, Parnasse?”

“Yes.” His voice was slightly muffled.

“Then why are you lying there instead of doing anything? You’ll just feel the cold more quickly this way.” Immediately after, she went back to blowling lightly on the embers to bring the fire back to life.

“Well, we could-“

“Goddamn mother of our holy saviour!” Jehan was interrupted by Valjean, who was starring at the sleeve of his cardigan with obvious displeasure.

“What is it, papa?” Cosette asked.

“I must have broken some thread while we were carrying the wood. There’s a big hole in my sleeve. Montparnasse, could you maybe…?”

“Of course, I’ll see what I can do.”

Ever since Montparnasse had revealed that he was a trained sewer and tailor, he had taken over all the repair work when it came to garments and had taken to teach both Cosette and Valjean one of the finer methods to mend their more daily clothes. In this case, Valjean’s sleeve indeed spotted a sizeable hole with ragged edges where the threads had been pulled and forcefully torn apart. Montparnasse could vividly imagine how the hole found its way into the garment. The logs were anything but smooth, after all, and the smallest splinter could lodge into the fabric and slowly but surely destroy it as long as enough movement was involved, which was bound to be the case if someone of Valjean’s size and strength went out to gather wood and carry it home.

“Yes, of course. I can probably be finished in time for supper, if I began now.” Montparnasse stretched out his hand, expecting Valjean to simply take of the Cardigan and hand it to him.

“Uhm, yes, of course, thank you. If you would just give me a minute-“ Valjean put the baskets he had been carrying next to the fireplace and went upstairs. Shortly after, he came downstairs once more, carrying the damaged cardigan in his hand and wearing another. Montparnasse took the damaged piece, sat down and began the repair process.

“Ugh, papa can be so shy. Don’t think too much about his behaviour, you two, he’s always been like this. As long as I’ve known him. Maybe it’s from his time in the nunnery, who knows,” Cosette said and began shedding her many layers she had worn for outside.

Montparnasse did not say anything. He was a man of many secrets, and he recognized when someone else had something to hide. Cosette was not this kind of person.

That night, Montparnasse and Jehan were lying on their small tower of blankets on the floor. Ever since it had become clear that they were not going to leave any time soon and Valjean and Cosette could not hide their backpain anymore nor evade Montparnasse and Jehan’s guilt over taking away one of their beds, they had decided on a sort of rotation system which led to Jehan and Montparnasse sleeping on the floor more often than Montparnasse had gotten used to in the last years of his life. Jehan seemed pensive.

“What are you thinking about?” Montparnasse asked.

“Mmh. Did you notice anything unusual about Jean?”

“Valjean? Not more than usual, why?”

“I just- Today, I walked into him changing, by accident, and I saw that he had a tattoo. It was big, across his chest. I did not have enough time to see what exactly it was saying, but I think they were numbers.”

“And?”

“I just… There was a story my father never told me, but I pieced it together from reports and documents and newspaper articles he preserved, about a convict released from labour camp who escaped him. He never found him, even ten years later. I think it’s the thing he considers the greatest stain in his career.”

“Was there anything special about the convict?”

“Not that I know of. I never even found out why he was a convict in the first place. He certainly never murdered anyone.”

At this, Montparnasse huffed, try and sardonic. If he had been sent to a labour camp, he would likely have drowned himself and everyone around him in blood until there was nothing left. They would have taken his freedom, there was nothing else to lose.

“And?”

“I don’t know. If my intuition is right, coincidence is much more likely than I previously thought. Let’s go sleep, Parnasse. These kind of things can only be solved by time or chance, there’s nothing we can do.” Jehan snuggled closer to Montparnasse and rested their head on his chest, tucked under his chin.

Montparnasse had sworn to Jehan that he would never lie to them. He intended to keep this promise. Now, depending on how the situation developed and whether or not their suspicion were proven true, he only hoped that Jehan would do the same in return.

Over the next few days, Montparnasse noticed how Jehan grew quieter, more observant. They listened intensely and attentively whenever Valjean said something, asked Cosette questions about their life prior to their intrusion. They were never prying, never digging to deep or being rude about their curiosity. Had Montparnasse not known about their underlying suspicion — what those were, he still did not have the slightest inkling but they existed and this was enough — he could never have guessed that Jehan was trying to discover something. Each night, when they were lying in his arms or he in theirs, he would ask about the ongoing investigation. Each time, he would go to sleep without knowing anything new.

“It’s not my story to tell. If Valjean so wishes, you will know soon. Just wait,” was the only thing Jehan said. Montparnasse hated waiting, but if Jehan said that was the only thing he could do, he would have to submit to these circumstances.

The next day, around noon, while Valjean and Montparnasse were cleaning the dishes they had used for breakfast, Jehan stepped into the kitchen.

“Jean, I do not wish to intrude, but there is something I need to tell you. And I have some questions I wish to ask as well.”

“Of course, what is it about?”, Valjean asked, one bowl still in hand. Jehan glanced at Montparnasse, as if in reassurance, and then settled their gaze back on Valjean. “I think it is better if we had this conversation in private.”

“I- Very well, if you think it better.” Valjean passed the wet bowl to Montparnasse to dry. “Apologies. Is it alright with you if I leave you alone to do the rest?” Indeed, there was not much left to do. Montparnasse took the bowl and began to dry it off.

The conversation between Jehan and Valjean took much longer than Montparnasse had been anticipating. It felt like hours and he had long been done with the dishes and began playing a round of cards with Cosette when the two of them came down from the first floor. Jehan looked tense, but there was a certain amount of relief they had carried around the last days which seemed to be gone. They walked into the room first before stepping aside to leave some room to Valjean, whom they looked at expectantly. Cosette and Montparnasse laid down their cards and focused their attention on the two others.

“Cosette, I have- There is something I haven’t told you yet.”

“Papa, what- Is it important to you that I know this? Sit down, you look white as a sheet!” Cosette jumped to her feet and led Valjean to the seat. Even though Montparnasse had guessed that Valjean was of considerable age and life experience, the lines on his face and in his hair told enough stories about what he must have lived through, but he had never seemed quite so old and battered as he did in this moment, as if the weight and burden of a lifetime had suddenly caught up with him. What had Jehan talked with him about for it to change this man so considerably?

“Cosette, you are the light of my life and ever since you accepted to come with me, I have felt nothing but joy every single day I was allowed to spend with you. You know this, right?”

“Of course, papa, I have never doubted your love for me. Nor I hope have you doubted my gratitude and love for yours.”

Cosette had sunk to her knees at his feet and clasped his big, calloused, rough hand in hers.

“No, nothing of the sort. I simply fear that this secret I’ve kept from you will change how you see me, and I do not wish for that to happen.”

“What secret, papa? I am confused.”

Montparnasse leaned forward as not to miss a single word, the slightest movement of muscle in their bodies. Jehan held him back by laying their hand on his shoulder.

“Sh, let’s not interrupt them. I will fill you in on everything you might need to know afterwards if you want.”

Together, they looked back at the pair of father and daughter.

“Many years ago, when I was a young man, I stole a loaf of bread to feed my sister’s family. I was caught, and sentenced to 5 years in the labour camps, a sentence which I ended up serving for 19 years due to numerous attempts of escape. After being released, I built myself a new life in a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer under a false identity and opened up a factory, where your mother worked. No, please let me finish, I will answer all your questions afterwards.” Cosette had opened her mouth to speak, but did not insist any further.

“Due to very unfortunate circumstances, most importantly I suspect her constant refusal of the foreman I had employed, she lost her employment in the factory and due to her quickly deteriorating health soon passed away. I would like to say there was nothing I could have done which would have saved her, but I fear this would be untrue. In her last moments, she asked me to take care of you and thus gave me the greatest blessing life has ever accepted to bestow upon me.”

With tender softness like Montparnasse had never seen before, Valjean swept over Cosette’s cheek, like an embrace compressed into its smallest possible form.

“When I was in the labour camps, there was an officer regularly in charge of my surveillance. His name was Javert.”

Montparnasse tried to remain calm and relaxed. He knew where this was going.

“We met again in Montreuil, by chance I venture, for all his faults and fixation of law and order he did not strike me as an obsessive man who would spent years of his life on a pointless search for one convict. I managed to escape him once again, and later in Paris as well, when we entered the nunnery, and thus I thought I had escaped him forever. He would not go looking for me any more than necessary or possible, and so we would be safe in the holy coven and later here, in a lonesome house in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, Javert is not as far away as I’d hoped.

Jehan just revealed to me that their father is Inspector Javert and he has not forgotten about me. Now that he is looking for his child, it is not impossible for him to find us here and he might recognize me, no matter how many years have passed. If that happens, and no matter what he tells you, I want you to know that I love you and you will always be my daughter. Your mother was a wonderful woman and it was a tragedy that you did not get to know her better while she was still with us. You are a wonderful child, Cosette, and a blessing to this world and while I am not proud of many things I did in my life, they all led me down the path of life which allowed me to find you, which is the greatest joy anyone could ask for.”

Cosette sniffled slightly. Montparnasse guessed she was crying.

“Papa, my mother, maman, how was she? Tell me more, I know so little about her.”

“Well, your mother was a woman of incredible strength and perseverance and no one I know held more love in her heart than she did. Fantine was-“

Jehan tipped Montparnasse shoulder and motioned for him to go outside.

“I think it is better if we leave them alone. They have much to talk about.”

Silently, they put on coats and warm clothes and escaped into the cold and empty light of day.

When they were far away enough from the house to see it as nothing but a miniature on the horizon, Montparnasse bundled up his courage to talk to Jehan about their conversation with Valjean. It seemed to have brought many realisations and the confirmation of their suspicion. Only that these suspicions involved Javert and everything which involved Javert and his hunt of Jehan inevitably involved Montparnasse and his crimes — whether real or falsely attributed — as well.

“Jehan, when you told Valjean about Javert and that he is likely still looking for us, did you-“

“No, do not worry. You’re not implicated in this. It wasn’t about you, and it never will be. If you want to confess about your past, I will not stop you, but I will never take this decision out of your hands.” Their smile was soft, a warm flame in the cold air and Montparnasse could feel his heart break open as if a flower had suddenly grown through pavement.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

They continued to walk, marching a circle around the house, careful not to lose it from their sight. The nights they had spent outside were still fresh on their mind and the winter seeping through their closes was a constant reminder that should they get lost again, it could very well mean their death.

“When the snow begins to melt, we should leave,” Montparnasse said. He did not want to, had no desire this home he had found in the most dire of circumstances and he had not expected to exist, but he also knew that they could not put Cosette and Valjean in danger with their presence and they were still not far away from Javert and their town to consider it the end of their escape.

“Hm. Yes, you’re right. I will miss them though.”

“Of course we will. Maybe we’ll get to visit them again, after things have calmed down and it will safer to do so. Maybe not in winter.”

“The first snow is closer than I’d like. Has it already been this long?”

“Time flies when you’re standing in the calm eye of the storm.”

“There is no storm, Montparnasse. Merely a wave we try to escape until it crashed on the shore and has to retreat.”

“The world is a storm, Jehan. It always has been. I don’t think that will ever change.”

“You’re always such a pessimist.” They punched him in the shoulder, laughing.

“I’d love to hear your fantastic positive outlook on our situation!” Grinning, Montparnasse made a sweeping motion with his arm, as if trying to pull them closer to him, put Jehan escaped with a fluid motion and skipped a few steps away from him, as if taunting him, beating up the snow under their feet in the process. Laughing, Montparnasse chased after them. He was already out of breath when he finally caught up and tackled Jehan to the ground. He barely managed to turn around mid-fall to land on his back and catch Jehan in his arms, sparring them a painful landing. The frozen ground was hard on his back.

“Well, we’re together. What more fantastically positive do you want?” Jehan’s smile was wide, more precious than all the gems Montparnasse had seen in his life. A few strands of hair had escaped their braid and where falling to the side of their face, framing them and tickling Montparnasse’s cheek.

“We are,” he simply said.

“We are,” Jehan repeated and their smile grew even wider. “And that’s why you’re not allowed to be mad at me.” Before Montparnasse could fully process what they had said, something cold, _icy,_ swallowed up all sounds of confusion or refusal he could have made.

Sputtering out the snow Jehan had thrown into his face — A snow fight? How childish, how _fun_ — Montparnasse tried to grab Jehan, to enact his righteous revenge, but they had already stood up and escaped out of his range.

“Wait for me, you coward, you’ll get what’s coming for you, JUST YOU WAIT!” Struggling on the slippery ground, Montparnasse managed to stand up, did not bother sweeping off the snow clinging to his coat and immediately set off to run off after Jehan. Their clear laughter resonated like crystalline glass in the clear air of the morning.

Then Jehan screamed. The next moment, they were on the ground, face buried in the cold snow.

In two steps, Montparnasse was at their side.

“Jehan, are you alright, What happened?”

“There was something on the ground, I must have tripped…” Indeed, half a meter away from Jehan’s right foot was a bit of wood protruding from the ground. It looked like a root from one of the few and bleak trees standing in the landscape. Now that the snow had fallen off of it after the shock, it was clear to see and near impossible to miss.

“Montparnasse, my foot, it hurts.” A thin trail of blood was running out of Jehan’s nose, over their lips and down his chin. They did not seem to notice it. Montparnasse focused his attention on their leg, where Jehan was holding their left thigh. Nothing stuck out at odd angles and it did not give the attention as if anything was broken. Still, Jehan said it hurt, and it was better not to take any risks. Montparnasse would get a better look at it when they were someplace warm and dry. We need to get back to the house. Do you think you can manage to walk?”

Jehan tried to make a step with their injured leg. They hissed and immediately retreated, leaving their leg dangling halfway into the air.

“If you’re patient enough for the trip back to take hours.”

Without hesitation, Montparnasse threw one of Jehan’s arms over his shoulder and helped them up. They balanced precariously on one leg.

“Get on my back, I’ll carry you. I’m sure Valjean or Cosette will be able to help us.”

Montparnasse went to his knees and helped Jehan climb onto his back. They were heavier than he had expected. He made sure he could hold them safe and securely, then he made his way to the house. It was a slow trip, and the burning cold air in his lungs did not help their machinations. When he finally arrived at the door, Cosette was already waiting for them and ushered them inside.

“What happened?”, she asked when Montparnasse laid Jehan down on the sofa.

“I tripped on a root and injured my foot or ankle somehow.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

Carefully, they took off Jehan’s shoes and Valjean examined his foot, ankle and lower leg. According to him, it was nothing more than a bad sprain, painful and inconvenient, but mostly on the acceptable end of possible injuries. Montparnasse would not have known what he would have done if one of their bones had been broken. As fast as they could, they applied fresh ice for cooling and Valjean made a compression. Jehan could do little else but lie down and lift their leg. They all expected a few calm days ahead of them while Jehan waited for their injury to heal.

The sun had already set when something heavy or someone strong hammered against the door of the house. All four of them turned to the door. They were not awaiting anyone. Valjean motioned for Montparnasse to come with him and for Cosette to stay at Jehan’s side. Then he grabbed the rifle he always kept on the wall and walked to the door. He opened it and in one fluid motion pointed the barrel at whoever was standing outside.

Inspector Javert pointed his own riffle right back at Valjean head. He looked grim, serious, ready to kill.

“Well, today seems to be my lucky day. I’ve finally found you, Montparnasse. And not only that, I see that criminals of your kind flock together. Unsurprising, if I think about it. Don’t you agree, Valjean?”

Stepping forward, Javert forced them back into the corridor.

“You’re both arrested in the name of the law. Now, where is Jehan?”


	12. Justice is a confusing wench and Rationality has never been the Policeman's strongest suit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, Javert has found them.

There was something infinitely calming about finally facing the person Montparnasse had felt breathing down his neck in his dreams. It was the final calm of a heart that has stopped beating. Unmoving, without any movement which could possibly cause disturbances to break the silence.

Javert was the exact opposite of this calm. His jaw trembled from pressure, it was a miracle he could hold the rifle steady while he threatened Valjean with it.

“Once more : Where is Jehan?”

“Papa, what is going on? Who is it?” Cosette’s voice was loud and clear, impossible for Javert to have overheard.

“So, you have another accomplice, then? Was it you who broke Montparnasse out? Was this your plan all along?”

Montparnasse did not know what plan Javert could possible be alluding to, but he was in no situation to contradict him. Carefully, he took a few steps ups without letting the policeman and his gun out of his sight.

“Let’s give them a visit, shall we? Lead me to where they are.”

Valjean began to move backwards as well, carefully, as not to bump into anything standing in the corridor or in the room they used to spend their evenings and to eat.

“Papa, what- Holy mother of our saviour! Who are you? Papa, why is this man pointing a rifle at you?”

All in all, Montparnasse was surprised how calm Cosette was. After all, it was not every day that a uniformed man stepped into your house and held your own father at gun point. But considering this was how she had greeted Montparnasse and Jehan when they had first asked for shelter, maybe it was not so unusual as he had first thought.

“Good evening, mademoiselle. My name is Inspector Javert, and these two men are dangerous criminals. Are you on their side?”

Montparnasse could barely stifle a burst of laughter at Javert’s naïve question and the incredulous look on Cosette’s face it resulted in. If only the inspector had taken the time to ask _him_ whether he had killed the people of whose murder he had been accused before throwing him into a cold and dark cell. 

Before Cosette could say something, Jehan took it upon themself to give their father an answer.

“She is helping me take care of my leg injury, father. Please, lay the rifle aside, I beg you.”

Jehan had never been this tense before, or at least not in a way Montparnasse had been present to witness it. The closest they had ever come to this was likely when they interrogated Montparnasse before breaking him out of prison. Admittedly, no one’s life had been directly at stake back then, so this small factor could easily explain the behavioural difference. In very much the same way, Jehan had not been caught between their own father and people he had given everything up for and with a loaded and dangerous in between, like they were now.

“Jehan!” For one moment, Javert’s grip around the butt of the gun slightly eased off, maybe they could clear everything up without anyone being seriously injured or even dying. Then he saw his child’s face, the slight bruises which had developed on their child and nose, likely from landing face first on the ground, and immediately secured his grip on the gun once more, quickly alternating between Montparnasse and Valjean before eventually setting on threatening the older man. It was clear he represented the bigger threat to him.

“What did you do to them? Did they try to escape and you had to stop them? You truly have no heart.” Javert spit out these last words, steel cold gaze fixed on Valjean, ready for any movement he could interpret as potentially threatening.

“No, Father, it is not like you think! They are innocent, I-“

“Jehan, I love you, and I will get you out of here. I know you don’t want anyone to get harmed, but this is not possible in this situation. Just stay where you are and I will get you out of here safely.”

“I-“

“Do you know who these two men are, mademoiselle?”

“Of course, _Inspector_.” The title flew over Cosette’s lips like venom. “The man you have been threatening to kill since stepping foot into our house is my father, Jean Valjean and the other is one of our guests, Montparnasse. You, on the other hand, have not been invited into my home, Monsieur.”

Cosette’s gaze was cold and hard. She was still kneeling at Jehan’s side and had her hand wrapped around theirs. When she said the word father, Javert looked at her, then at Valjean and back at her. Recognition dawned on his face.

“Ah, I see. So you are that woman’s daughter. He truly found you. What a shame.”

Cosette said nothing. Clearly, Javert’s opinion on her mother was not relevant to her. Or Valjean had already told her everything she needed to know while Jehan and Montparnasse had been busy having a snow fight.

“And do you know about him. About all the crimes he committed, what a monster he is? He is the wolf in sheep’s clothing. I must admit, you’ve done your work well, Montparnasse. As much as a criminal like you can do any kind of good work.”

“You still have not answered my questions, monsieur.” Exasperation and slight worry were beginning to mark Cosette’s face. Montparnasse truly hoped Javert would not get the chance to unveil all the crimes he had been accused of. There was no way to tell how many of the ones he had committed back in Paris had yielded any proof if the inspector had happened to look into them. This man was an abomination. Only because Thénardier had betrayed him in revenge and Javert had listened to him without second guessing anything he had been told, had he been forced to flee into the cold and freezing winter.

“Well, he is the Devil himself. Deceit wrapped inside a charming coat. He’s from Paris, you know? For years, the police there have been looking for him. Blasphemy, fraud are only the most simple of his crimes. At least 13 people-“

Montparnasse did not allow Javert to finish this sentence. With all his body weight, little as it was in comparison, he threw himself against the policeman and tackled him to the ground. The gun went off, a loud bang right next to his ear. Montparnasse paid it no mind for he struggled to get Javert under control. This man had ruined everything he had dreamed of and worked hard to achieve. Because of him, Montparnasse had needed to leave everything behind, had been obligated to confess to Jehan, had been shown on his knees in front of scum like Thénardier. He had not undergone all this struggle, all this pain for a marionette in uniform to push him off the cliff and watch him break his back on the shore spikes below. Jehan had accepted him for who he was, but they crave darkness to offset their own light. He could not expect the same of Cosette and Valjean.

The struggle lasted only for a few seconds in Montparnasse’s favour before he found himself on his with Javert’s fingers around his throat. The effect of his air supply being cut off were near immediate. Pain shot to Montparnasse’s brain, he could the strength fleeing from his muscles. Frantically, he tried to pry Javert’s finger away from him, without any success. Kicks did nothing, attacking his face proved fruitless as well.

Darkness began to take over Montparnasse’s field of vision. His arm fell to his side, devoid of any strength to hold it up and fight. It fell on something hard. Montparnasse tried to gasp for air, but he achieved nothing but a painful rattle as his lungs heaved but did not fill with oxygen. His fingers clawed around the object. The gun Javert had dropped. He could use it. The possibility to miss on such a short distance equalled zero. Not only would Montparnasse survive, he would get to feel Javert’s painful demise first hand as it left his body and splattered on his face, neck and torso, burning hot as only the departure of life can be.

Montparnasse gripped the gun more strongly. He only had one chance; he had to put all the strength left in his body into this one movement. A shrill ringing began to full his ears as even the darkness in his vision began to fade into nothingness.

He had to act _no_ w.

Lifting the gun felt strange, as if Montparnasse’s arm were disconnected from his body. His muscles screamed silently, but he willed them to go on. He could not die here. He would not allow himself to die here.

The gun was heavy and did nothing to lessen the weight the more Montparnasse struggled to pick it up and point it at least in Javert’s general direction. He had to survive! This was the closest to definite freedom he would ever get!

A dull thud, accompanied by a dark and huge blurred shadow resonated in the small room and suddenly, Montparnasse could breathe again.

The air got stuck in his lungs, he heaved and coughed, but the pressure on his airpipes was gone and he could freely breathe again, even if pain shot through his body each time he did.

“Parnasse!”, screamed Jehan.

“Papa!”, screamed Cosette.

Javert screamed in shock and surprise of the unexpected assault. After a few deep breaths, Montparnasse could finally identify what had actually happened.

Kneeling on top of Javert was Valjean, grey hair hazard and flying in all directions, clearly trying to get the man under him to stop moving, to bring the situation under control. Javert, however, was much more successful in his attempts of escape. One, two- three times he managed to free himself from Valjean’s grip, a grip which must be strong as steel and twice as painful, yet he was like a eel, slimy and armed with the knowledge of where to strike to cause the most pain, to make the fingers open in reflex. None of these short shots at freedom lasted long enough to allow him to struggle to his feet and win the upper hand, however. Valjean had clearly enough experience in these matters. Withing seconds, he had caught Javert once more, like one traps a fly in a jar. The third time, he pressed him face first into the ground, hands bound behind his back, sitting on his legs to prevent any other struggle.

“Run, you three idiots! Do you want to be arrested? Run, and take the horses with you! Cosette, you know how to find the road,” he shouted, clearly still struggling against Javert but less at risk of losing his holding.

“RUN!”

Montparnasse was already at his feet and pulled Jehan with him. They were still injured and he would not leave them behind.

As they walked and stumbled out of the door, Montparnasse could hear Valjean’s deep, booming and warm voice.

“Javert, I surrender, under the condition that you bring me to court immediately and without detour. If you try to follow these children, I will escape, hunt you down and you will never get another chance to bring me into the iron claws of justice ever again.”

He did not have to time to process what this meant until Cosette, Jehan and he were seated on the horses and galloping through the night, clutching their newfound freedom close to their hearts and chasing it into the night.

Tomorrow, they would have to pause, understand what had happened and decide on a course of action. That night, all they could do was flee the danger and ride towards their future shrouded in dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voilà, this was the last chapter, I hope you enjoyed it! Now there's only the Epilogue left which I plan on finishing and posting this weekend, let's keep the fingers crossed.  
> If you like(d) this story, please leave a kudo or even a comment, I'd love to hear what other people have been thinking, especially because it's my longest project by far (this fic clocks in at over 75k words which is the length of a full novel and none of my other fics are longer than 20k).


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a new future on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voilà, this is the epilogue and therefore officially the last chapter of the story. I hoped you liked and enjoyed it; if you did, please leave a kudo and/or a comment, I would love to hear from you! 
> 
> And now, enjoy a little wrap up.

Two weeks later, Montparnasse, Jehan and Cosette had put behind them dozens if not hundreds of miles. They went from village to village, town to town, never staying long but leaving without a clear goal.

It seemed Valjean had bought them enough time. Javert had yet to find them.

“I think we should go to Paris,” Cosette said one night.

“Why?”, asked Jehan, the very same moment Montparnasse said “Absolutely not.”

“You said Éponine was looking for his brothers there. I want to see him and Azelma again. There are so many things in my life I have not given closure to yet. And we were not the same people we were as children. I think we should go looking for them.”

Montparnasse missed the Thénardier siblings, he could not deny it. Still, this was a bad idea.

“We have not idea if they still are in Paris. And the police there are likely still looking for me. I think we should leave the country.”

“But it’s the best clue we have to finding them. Anything else would be searching for a needle in a haystack. And you miss them, Montparnasse, I can see it in your face. I will not leave France. If Papa manages to escape, I want to find him again.”

Montparnasse sighed.

“I do miss them. It’s still a bad idea.”

“What do you think, Jehan?” Cosette turned and looked at them expectantly.

“I’ve never been to Paris. I would love to discover it. Together, I mean.”

Montparnasse had lost the battle on all fronts.

“I guess we’re leaving for Paris in the morning then.”

Jehan was right. Together, it could be another chance at everything he had missed the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> Now the story has reached it's end. Thank you for reading it, I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment or come talk to me on Tumblr @ [mona-liar](https://mona-liar.tumblr.com/).


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